


Red

by batmanbemysugardaddy



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bat Brothers, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Broken Bones, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Lazarus Pit, M/M, Mentions of Talia al Ghul - Freeform, Multi, Past Character Death, Protective Jason Todd, Secret Relationship, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Swearing, Tim Drake is Red Robin, batfam, content warnings at the start of each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-11-26 10:37:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 48,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18179525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batmanbemysugardaddy/pseuds/batmanbemysugardaddy
Summary: The drought-ravaged fields of rural Kansas sprawled before him; dusty and beige. It felt like all Jason could see for miles was corn, and it made him uncharacteristically claustrophobic. Okay, maybe the heat was getting to him a little under his fully-enclosed helmet, because he could have sworn he saw the corn to his left rustle. Suddenly, he was slamming on the brakes, before his mind could really register what was happening. He swerved, trying to avoid the figure that had appeared in front of him.The frame of the bike bounced off the man's shins like a football, and by then Jason was already standing upright to face him. He kind of wished he hadn't. Even with ten feet and his smouldering bike between them he could tell the other man – if you could call him that – had a least a foot on him.And there he was. His red boots and blue tights didn't even have a scuff on them from the collision, and he folded his arms lazily across his enormous chest.“If you have business in Smallville you have business with me.”**A story about an unlikely friendship between Superman and The Red Hood, and the implications that has on the trajectory of their lives.





	1. Superman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Smoking, brief mention of self-harm, mention of death, swearing
> 
> This story should be updated with new chapters fairly frequently, but it's still a work-in-progress. As such, I have a lot of plans for characters that might not be portrayed in the best light in the early chapters. I intend for this work to show the moral ambiguity of being a superhero and explore that through queerness and relationships. 
> 
> Let me know if I've missed any CW's! 

###  Chapter 1: Superman 

The drought-ravaged fields of rural Kansas sprawled before him; dusty and beige. It felt like all Jason could see for miles was corn, and it made him uncharacteristically claustrophobic. The roads out here were narrow. So narrow, that he'd had to swerve his bike to avoid colliding head-first with an eighteen-wheeler that drove straight down the middle. The driver barely even glanced at the road, as though he never expected to come across another soul out here. Though the roads were flat, it seemed like everything disappeared out of his rear-view mirror in an instant; replaced by a bleak and hazy horizon. 

Okay, maybe the heat was getting to him a little under his fully-enclosed helmet, because he could have sworn he saw the corn to his left _rustle_. It was like wind through tall grass, but Jason (sweltering as he was) was keenly aware that there was no breeze here today. No, only the unrelenting, dry heat of the American fucking Midwest.

It had still been dark when Jason had taken off from Central City this morning. Foolishly, he'd tugged on his leather jacket and set off at a leisurely pace. If he'd only floored it from the start, he might have reached his destination before now. Midday. With his jacket off, and too-tight black t-shirt borrowed from a friend doing exactly fuck all to deflect the heat.

The sun roared high above him, its rays rippling across a cloudless sky – a perfect fucking blue sky, because this was His turf after all. It reminded him of Kori, and the way her heat singed him sometimes in the midst of battle. He was sure the sunburn on his arms today would be worse than any burn she'd ever given him in the line of duty (or in the bedroom). 

His mind wandered briefly to his friends, and he imagined what they were doing right now. Fucking, probably, although they'd been doing a lot less of that lately. Jason wondered if it had anything to do with their recent run-in with the Bat family. Kori could deny it all she wanted, but Jason knew she still had feelings for his older brother. _It was years ago_ , he recalled telling Roy, trying to assure him that his new solar-powered girlfriend wasn't still pining after another man. 

But of course, she was. Who wouldn't be? Dick was charming, playful, morally righteous to a fault, and kinder than he had any right to be. His blinding smile had turned Jason into a petulant child when they first trained together. Every night, reflected in those pearly whites, he'd seen flashes of red and green, and in his mind's eye those colours had morphed into Dick's image. They'd always be Dick.

Even the picture next to Roy's bed – the framed newspaper clipping he thought no one knew about – reminded him of his father's first protégé. Green Arrow and Speedy, all decked out in red and green. Smiling those damn blinding smiles; especially Arrow's smile. Jason swore he could tell a person's tax bracket based on their smile, and Green Arrow had the smile of a man who'd been able to afford a top-shelf dentist his entire life. The type of guy who'd had _Invisalign_ instead of braces, because charming the pants off girls had been his top priority even in middle school. In middle school, Jason had just been trying to feed his mom.

Suddenly, he was slamming on the brakes, before his mind could really register what was happening. He swerved, trying to avoid the figure that had appeared in front of him. His bike toppled and frankly he was glad for it, because there was no way he was getting it to stop in time anyway. He slid backwards away from it, his leather riding pants catching on the rough asphalt beneath him. He bit back the urge to pull his guns as his heart pounded in his ears. His vision swam a little and shit, the heat really was getting to him.

His bike came to a stop like it'd hit a brick wall at top speed. And really, it might as well have, because the metal gave way against the solid surface it hit; twisting and contorting until he knew he'd have to scrap it and get a new one. He just hoped his gear was salvageable.

The frame of the bike bounced off the man's shins like a football, and by then Jason was already standing upright to face him. He kind of wished he hadn't. Even with ten feet and his smouldering bike between them he could tell the other man – if you could call him that – had a least a foot on him.

And there he was. His red boots and blue tights didn't even have a scuff on them from the collision, and he folded his arms lazily across his enormous chest. Seemingly unfazed by the Red Hood's appearance in his hometown, he cocked one eyebrow. Though his mouth remained a firm line, there was the tiniest twinkle of amusement in his eye.

When Jason made no attempt to speak (and boy was he glad in that moment that he'd lead-lined his helmet, because his mouth was still completely agape), Superman finally spoke. His voice boomed like that of a theatre actor who was trained in the art of projecting their voice. Superman seemed to command power even over sound itself.

“If you have business in Smallville you have business with me.”

Jason noted that the Kryptonian didn't actually ask what the business was. Guess he figured no matter what it was, if a regular human like Red Hood could handle it, then it would be a chore for him at most. 

The silence that stretched on between them was as long as the road they were on, and Jason let it linger until the stiffness in his limbs from hours of riding was gone. Then finally -- with a long, shaky breath that he was confident Superman heard -- he moved.

He unholstered his guns and Superman tensed, his arms coming apart slightly before returning to their crossed position as Jason unloaded both and tossed them into the space between himself and the superhero. He figured they wouldn't do him much good here anyway, and Jason was desperate. It wasn't much, but it was more than any show of faith he'd ever given Batman. Superman seemed to sense that because his features softened, if only slightly.

Not daring to move forward until the Kryptonian had vetted him, Jason instead held his arms out to his sides in a gesture of surrender. He thought of the day Superman had come to visit Red Hood and the Outlaws on their secluded little beach. He'd wanted to ask Kori about some trivial detail regarding a case he was working, but he'd also given Jason some valuable information about where he stood with the League.

“You said Bruce vouched for me.”

His words seemed to anger the Kryptonian, because he all-but lunged forward and was nose-to-nose with Jason before he could blink. Jason winced instinctively under his helmet, anticipating a blow from the strongest man on the planet -- maybe in the universe.

“How do you know his name?” Superman boomed.

His tone was the scariest thing Jason had ever heard; all protectiveness and righteousness and fury.

Or it would have been, had his question not been so fucking absurd.

Never had Jason been quite so tempted to laugh maniacally like the Joker. To really just throw his head back and cackle like a madman. How did he know Bruce's name? How did he know the name of the man who had taken him in, trained him, been his mentor and the only true father figure he'd ever known? No, of course, how could Red Hood, the criminal outlaw, have ever been entrusted with something as sacred as the Batman's name.

In that moment, he felt like nothing. Nobody. He was just another husk of corn swaying in the fields of Smallville, Kansas. The type of insignificant plant that got crushed under the weight of Superman and Batman's boots alike.

“He never told you,” Jason finally breathed, when he awoke from his little existential nightmare. And now so wasn't the time for that.

He must have been vacant for a little too long there, because if he didn't know better he would have thought he'd got to the Kryptonian. Superman blinked, licked his lips, and stared Jason right in the lenses. Jason was glad for the filter between himself and those piercing blue eyes, because he was sure his own eyes were filled to the brim with fear. Or tears -- that happened sometimes when he thought too hard about his old mentor.

“Told me what,” Superman demanded through gritted teeth.

His voice was something else now. Something low and desperate; primal. It was a trick right out of Bruce's book, and it was one Jason was well and truly desensitised to. He was proud of himself for not flinching.

“Told me what!” he repeated, shouting this time, his fist appearing between their faces.

Again, Jason found himself preparing for a blow that didn't come. Instead, the Kryptonian's fingers curled around the jaw of his helmet as he took it in both hands and ripped in in two; the way you might see a normal man tear up a sheet of paper.

Beneath it, Superman only found another mask, this one bright red and shaped into two diamonds over his eyes. A domino mask; the last remnants of his life has a hero. Finally unsettled, Jason cocked his head away in shame.

This only seemed to make Superman angrier. For a moment, between the flashes of snarling teeth and eyes that were beginning to glow just a little, Jason thought he saw a flicker of Clark Kent; the gutsy, uncompromising reporter Jason had studied. He was under there somewhere, Jason knew, and he wondered how much journalist informed hero, and hero informed journalist. The Clark Kent who published exposes in _The Daily Planet_ was fiercely intelligent and ruthless in his quest to find the truth.

After Superman made Batman's acquaintance (if you could call it that) but before Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne had been formally introduced, Kent had roped Bruce into a rare one-on-one about WayneTech. It had been a scalding interview and the ramifications had rippled throughout the press and the business world for weeks. Jason had still been Robin at the time, and he recalled Bruce returning from the interview looking uncharacteristically flustered; his cheeks flushed and his hair dishevelled and oily from running his hands through it so much.

And there it was, back to Bruce. The inescapable prick.

His feathers (pun regretfully intended) ruffled, he side-stepped around Superman and bent beside his bike. He knew it looked like he was reaching for his guns or some other weapon, but surely Superman knew he could dodge anything Jason threw at him. And frankly, right now, he just couldn't bring himself to give a shit.

He fished out his jacket and retrieved a packet of a cigarettes from one of the pockets before slinging it lazily over his shoulder. Then almost immediately he sighed as he realised he'd left his lighter on a kitchen table that wasn't his own (but belonged to the same person his shirt did). His bat-brain (because really, once Bruce's training was drilled into you, you never really forgot) immediately set to work on a solution.

Without really considering the consequences he found himself saying to Superman, “Could you…” gesturing to his cigarette with one hand and using his other to make the 'I can see you' motion at Superman's eyes.

“Smoking kills,” the caped crusader said dryly, because of course Superman was an advocate for smoking cessation.

_Kills_ , he thought bitterly, _yeah, I know a thing or two about that_. In his mind's eye he pictured his resurrection; all goo and gasping and an ever-encroaching sense of sentient nothingness. It reminded him of… _Oh_.

It reminded him of the goo in the Kryptonian space vessel that the founding members of the Justice League had used to resurrect the man standing before him.

“Have you ever tried one?” Jason found himself asking dumbly, pulling a second cigarette from the pack and holding them both out, somewhat tentatively this time.

Superman blinked at the offered tobacco, seemingly ignoring the offer, and then it was like something clicked because in a flurry of blue and red he was gone. And so was Jason's bike.

Just as he was about to start wondering how the fuck he was supposed to get out of this sun-scorched hell, what remained of his bike landed with a _thunk_ somewhere off in the corn field to his left. He found Superman rising elegantly up from that same spot, using one hand to sling Jason's bike pouch over his shoulder. The toes of his boots grazed the top of the corn field like fingertips on the surface of a pond as he floated towards Jason.

Without a word, he grabbed Jason by the scruff of his neck and then they were flying. Which, much as Jason was as acrobatic as his older brother, wasn't something he did particularly often. Soaring through the air was one thing, when you had a grappling line to tether you to the earth. But this, this was strange. It didn't help that Superman was setting a break-neck pace. Jason found himself hoping the Kryptonian didn't break the sound barrier with Jason still in tow.

No sooner than the ride had begun though, it was over. Jason found himself deposited onto a floor of hay in the loft of a barn. Looking out the window, Jason could see a modest farmstead in the distance. It was painted a faded, warm yellow. It was hard to tell, but the modest house and the single, gigantic tree beside it seemed to match the satellite images Jason had studied before he left. So, this was it, the Kent Farm.

Superman had taken him home.

It was only as Superman took the two cigarettes from his hand that Jason realised he'd still been holding them. Feeling a little stupid, he easily relinquished them to the superhero who, much to Jason's surprise, lit them both with his heat vision. In the process he also set alight a small patch of hay directly beside Jason's foot, which Jason instinctively stamped out, as though drawing attention to it might embarrass the Kryptonian.

Jason was starting to think there was a lot he didn't know about Superman.

 

They smoked their cigarettes in silence, Superman sitting leisurely on the sill of the enormous barn window while Jason sat on the edge of a hay bale, still keenly aware that he was on the Kryptonian's home turf. But it was cooler inside, even if the barn smelled a little like manure. And, come to think of it, there was something else in the air, something that Jason recognised from a time before his resurrection. It was harder to place memories from back then, but Jason was determined to chase this one down.

He stamped the butt of his cigarette against the palm of his gloved hand so as not to start a (well, another) fire and flicked the remnants into a nearby waste paper basket.

It seemed like Superman was living out here, at least some of the time, because as well as the bin there was a king mattress in the loft with at least a dozen books strewn across the side of the bed Superman wasn't sleeping on. Next to a lone pillow was a small lamp under which, in a bed of hay, rested a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses. There was even a chest of drawers and a cupboard. The drawers were overflowing with clothing, pieces of which were draped everywhere. Mostly button-ups, blazers and trousers, which made sense; in his day-to-day life Superman was a journalist, after all. Still, Jason hadn't expected a mess; he figured they didn't call him the Big Blue Boy Scout for nothing.

Superman seemed to copy Jason, putting his own cigarette out on his palm as well, only he wasn't wearing gloves. Of course, the hot ash had no effect on him. But still, Jason suppressed a cringe. Mostly because he'd been known to put his cigarettes out on his own skin too, but for an entirely different reason.

As he took a few steps forward and closed the gap between himself and the superhero, he realised he had no idea what he was going to say. Frankly, he'd almost forgotten why he was here. That was when the smell hit him again, this time in full force. It seemed to penetrate his sinuses like smoke and worm its way into his brain, reawakening memories he'd tried hard to forget.

A ballroom of marble and polished dark wood, arching forth into the sky for what seemed like forever until it was crowned by a glass dome. Himself, much younger, in a black suit and red tie. Bruce beside him -- still towering over him back then -- with a black bowtie and one arm around the waist of a beautiful woman. She'd had the glowing green-yellow eyes of a cat, and she was the only one of Bruce's dates that Jason had seen more than once.

He remembered reading rumours of her possible engagement to billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne in the _Gotham Gazette_. 'IS GOTHAM'S MOST ELIGBLE BACHELOR FINALLY SETTLING DOWN?' the headline had read in tacky font, accompanied by a picture of Bruce and the woman -- Selina, Jason thought her name might have been -- arm-in-arm outside some fancy French restaurant.

Another memory: the familiar, dimly lit halls of Wayne Manor. Jason had been sneaking back in after a night out with someone -- probably Dick, but that wasn't the important part. They'd crossed paths, him and Selina, and she'd pressed a finger to her lips as though to say, 'I won't tell if you don't tell'. She'd been sneaking out of Bruce's room -- quiet as a cat -- presumably while Bruce was still asleep. She'd smelled exactly how Superman did now -- exactly how Bruce did on every night he wanted to impress someone or, really, just on any night he was putting on the Bruce Wayne mask.

Jason took a deep breath, drinking in the scent a little more, and found himself sinking down onto the broad windowsill beside Superman. There were a few ways this could go, and Jason knew none of them were pretty. This wasn't what he came for, this wasn't something he needed to know. Getting involved with Bruce's personal life again was… dicey at best, even if the guy was kind of his dad.

So, option numero uno as he saw it:

“You're _fucking Batman_?” he'd ask, incredulously, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.

And.…Superman would probably punch his lights out.

Nope, that wasn't it. And of course, at that moment Jason just had to glance over at the dishevelled chest of drawers on the other side of the loft, and of course there just had to be a designer suit there that was worth more than what Clark Kent made in a year.

Option numero dos:

“So, this reporter from The Daily Planet, Clark Kent?” Jason would ask.

Superman's shoulders would roll back, because duh, they're on the Kent family farm, so obviously Jason knows who Clark Kent really is.

“I think he might be in some sort of relationship with Bruce Wayne,” he'd finish politely, and then promptly take a Kryptonian fist straight to the jaw.

And in this close a proximity, with their knees almost bumping on this windowsill, it might even kill him.

So that was a no-go too. And now everything was starting to sink in. Superman's behaviour back on the road had been defensive, almost territorial, and Jason had just assumed that he was protecting his hometown, his family. But now he was almost certain that he was protecting Batman -- protecting Bruce -- from this punk kid in a motorcycle helmet who somehow knew his secret I-D.

Well shit, option numero tres it was then.

So, he took off his mask.


	2. Jason Todd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Smoking, brief mention of self-harm, mention of death, swearing

###  Chapter 2: Jason Todd 

Superman's face was unreadable. The man was like a wall, literally and figuratively. He wouldn't budge for a semi and he wouldn't budge for Jason's now-unobscured blue eyes, either. Flashes of something, maybe recognition, danced across his features before being replaced with a pursed mouth and a square jaw.

“Jason Todd,” Jason said without hesitation, holding out his hand.

It might have been shaking, just a little, but you'd never catch him admitting that.

There it was. The look. The one everyone who had seen him post-resurrection gave him. It was like disbelief, with horror followed closely on its heels, usually replaced with anger or fear as they demanded to know what kind of trick his was.

“Back from the dead,” Jason continued, his hand still lingering in the air between them. He was determined to get this handshake from Superman, especially since, y’know, the guy was fucking his dad.

To Superman's credit, his gaze softened, and Jason was again reminded of Superman's own resurrection after his clash with Doomsday. It had been a long time ago, long before Jason's death, but he still remembered with soul-crushing clarity the look on Bruce's face. Bruce hadn't gone to Clark or Superman's funeral, of course, but he'd quietly paid for both and stood weeping as he watched the service on TV. It was the only time Bruce had ever let Jason hold him -- really hold him -- and not the other way around. Looking back on it, Jason wondered if the expression on Bruce's face that day had been love, even back then. And if so, was it the same expression he'd had on the day of Jason's death?

“I took him to visit your grave, on the anniversary of-- last year,” Superman suddenly blurted, his words running together as though he couldn't contain the thought any longer.

He'd just been staring at Jason's hand for a few long moments, but now Jason finally let it drop, wondering if somehow Superman had figured out that he knew. He wouldn't put it past the Kryptonian; he'd studied Clark Kent, after all, and knew that his wit was sharper than anybody gave him credit for.

Rather than acknowledging the uncomfortable statement that Superman had made (and all the thoughts that came with it, like the idea that Bruce had actually mourned for him), he said, “How long have you and he been together?”

Superman's features hardened, and he opened his mouth to speak. Jason knew the denial was coming, so he cut him off.

“You smell like his custom cologne and that's one of his suits over there.”

He cocked his head in the general direction of the suit he'd spied earlier. _Cards on the table_ , he thought to himself.

And holy hell, Superman _blushed_. Like actually, honest-to-god blushed. Maybe it was because he felt safe here, in his childhood home, or maybe it was because he figured no one would believe an unhinged outlaw like Red Hood, but suddenly his soul was laid bare across his features for Jason to see.

“You can't tell anyone,” he finally choked, and there was genuine fear in his eyes, a warble in his voice.

“Clark,” he said softly, without thinking -- because damn it there was still some Robin left in him. Then, when Superman's eyes grew wide at the sound of his name, he hastily promised, “I won't tell anyone.”

“You have my word,” he added, when it became clear that Superman wasn't satisfied with that response. “Robin's honour.”

He held up his hand as though he was about to be sworn in as a witness at a murder trial and, honestly, that probably would have been less terrifying than this.

After the discomfort of the moment had settled in his bones, Jason had an idea. He pulled the cigarette pack from his pocket again, and this time Superman didn't have to be prodded to light them both. He sucked his down like it was oxygen, even though Jason was sure nicotine had no effect on Kryptonian physiology. Hell, he didn't even think the guy needed oxygen to begin with.

Jason couldn't even begin to list -- let alone figure out -- all the potential reasons why Superman had been so scared of anyone finding out about his relationship with Bruce. Obviously, two members of the League dating would cause all kinds of problems and set all kinds of troubling precedents -- especially when two founding members were involved.

But there was also just the fact that they were gay, and Jason could sympathise with that. He wasn't sure what he was, but he knew it wasn't exactly straight. And the idea of the bad guys finding out? Imagine how much respect Bruce would lose if the thugs of Gotham went around calling Batman a faggot. Jason was sure it would be the same for Superman in Metropolis (and across the globe).

Plus, who knew if any of the other members of the League were homophobic? Being tolerant and LGBT-friendly wasn't exactly a prerequisite for joining.

Fuck, Jason just wanted to give the guy a hug (and Bruce too, but he'd never admit it).

Finally, Jason finished his cigarette (a minute or so after Superman, who had hastily sucked his down and had been all-but twiddling his thumbs ever since) and scrubbed a calloused palm over his now-bare face.

“Look,” Jason began, more harshly than he'd intended.

He winced at the sound of his own voice.

Reeling his tone back in, he continued more softly, “I won't tell anyone if you don't tell anyone about this.”

“About you being here?” Superman asked immediately, his brow furrowing. “You still haven't told me why-”

“No,” Jason corrected, cutting the Kryptonian off (which was maybe the boldest thing he'd ever done in his life). “About what I'm about to do,” he said slowly.

“W-” Superman began, but Jason was already on his feet.

He crossed the short distance between them and awkwardly wrapped his arms around the other man's shoulders. He'd wanted this to be a little more graceful, but Superman was so fucking broad. It was like trying to hug the side of a house.

To Jason's immense shock, Superman dipped his head and let it rest on Jason's shoulder for a time, his eyes closed. He returned the embrace, and Jason could tell he was concentrating on being gentle. Upon realising just how much effort Superman had to put into being gentle, Jason found his demeanour souring and his expression twisting into a grimace.

“Is this how hard it is to be with him?” Jason found himself asking hotly. “You have to put that much effort into not crushing him all the time?”

Superman pulled away then, and Jason took his cue to step back and really _look_ at the man before him. Not the Kryptonian, not the caped hero: the man. Clark Kent.

“Yes,” Clark said after a while, his voice full of the raw honesty that Jason had only ever heard before when Superman was giving a speech about world peace.

Clark, not Superman, was looking him dead in the eyes, and it felt like he was begging Jason for an answer. It was an expression he was used to seeing on the faces of civilians in the middle of a crisis; helpless and stranded, in need of someone to show them the way. Jason knew that for most people -- civilians and superheroes alike -- Superman was that someone, the one who always knew the way.

It was only then, in that bizarre, vulnerable moment where they were smoking cigarettes and talking about how Clark was fucking his dad, that Jason fully recognised the immense burden that must come from being the Man of Steel. Steel was cold, unmoving, unfeeling, and so un-Clark. Even in the articles Jason had read, Clark's emotions came across. He had a passion for people. You could tell he really, deeply cared about them. And, well, shit, it seemed like Clark had chosen to really, deeply care about one person in particular: Batman.

“Fuck, dude,” was all Jason could muster in the end. It felt like for a second Jason had shared the weight on Superman's shoulders, and it was the weight of the whole world.

Superman made a low _huff_ that might have been a laugh that died on the way out, and Jason suddenly remembered why he was here.

“So, I need your help,” he began, wondering if Superman would even want to help him after all of this, or if he'd just want to fly Jason as far away from here as possible and avoid him for the rest of their lives. But Superman made no attempt to stop him, so he continued, playing the only bargaining chip he thought he had, “And you look like you could do with a little therapy. Y'know, the kind where you catch some bad guys and mindlessly destroy some LexCorp property?”

And damn it, just when Jason thought he had a read on the man in front of him, Superman _laughed_.


	3. Wonder Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Swearing, graphic depiction of violence (canon-typical)

###  Chapter 3: Wonder Woman 

Riding on Superman's back was fucking weird.

Of all the weird shit Jason had done in his life, straddling the ass of the guy his dad was fucking and riding him like a goddamn magic carpet was definitely among the weirdest. _Batman got used to it eventually_ , Clark had said, as though that helped. The look Jason had given him must have been one of pure fear, because Clark had hurriedly clarified that he meant Bruce often accompanied him on missions that required the use of his flight, and that he absolutely wasn't referred to what Clark so helpfully called ‘the beast with two backs’.

But hey, at least the Midwestern summer heat was dissipating now as the sun set, and it was nice to have the wind whipping through his hair (even if he was going to have to track down a new helmet now). There was no time to enjoy the ride though, he thought, as the Central City skyline rose from the horizon in the distance. They wouldn't be going into the city tonight, but rather just on the outskirts of it, in the factory district.

Silently – though he would never tell Clark this – he was glad that Luthor had chosen such an isolated location for his new facility. It was a commercially zoned area, so there were no sleeping mothers and children nearby, no civilians to get caught in the crosshairs. And, if Red Hood were being honest, he wasn't nearly as cautious of civilians as Superman was. Which now, in the presence of the Man of Steel himself, he was pretty ashamed of. _Where's Kori when you need her_?

In what was perhaps the most undignified move of his life, Red Hood now found himself clambering around Superman's horizontal body until he was face-to-face with the man, domino mask meeting perfect black forehead curl, and clinging to his body largely with his thighs.

“Don't tell Batman,” they both said at once and damn it, where's the helmet when you need it, because Red Hood wasn't supposed to _smile_ , least of all in front of Superman.

“Anyway, I'm gonna drop and take out the guards ahead of time so they can't alert anyone inside to your presence,” he said, forcing his smile back into the depths of his body and going into mission mode. His tone was all business after that, “With any luck I can get the security cameras down before I need you and no one will ever know you were here.”

Jason knew that Leaguers weren't supposed to break the law, not really, and breaking into a private facility – one owned by an allegedly squeaky-clean businessman and all-round good guy – was definitely against the law. Still, it was Lex Luthor, so of course Superman had wanted in. That, and Jason's intel had indicated that a large shipment of Kryptonite had just been delivered here, which obviously Superman didn't want to fall into the wrong hands.

“You'll hear me if I call for you right?” Jason asked one last time, adjusting his grip as he prepared to drop from the Kryptonian's body.

They'd already been over it a dozen times; the codeword was 'pineapple' and of course Superman would hear him, he had _super-hearing_ , duh. But still, it didn't hurt to be sure, especially when he'd be royally screwed if Superman didn't hear him.

Superman just nodded, a hint of a smile on his lips.

And then Jason was falling which, frankly, was way more his speed than flying was. Something about going against gravity had never sat well with him; but falling was all about gravity.

He sliced through the air, awaiting the right altitude to pop his glider out from the arms of his suit, which he'd changed into before they left. It wasn't as fancy as the gliders the Bat-brains used nowadays, but it was tried and true. From up above he heard the faint call of Superman saying, “be careful”.

Fully aware that the Kryptonian could hear him, he murmured, “You too.”

_You're getting soft, Jay_ , he thought to himself as he landed gracefully behind two armed guards on the roof of the compound. And sure enough, he _thwacked_ one in the back of the head, disarmed him, and used the butt of the guy's machine gun to knock his friend unconscious too. In another life (AKA literally yesterday) he would have been telling himself that it was safer to slit their throats to make sure they couldn't alert the others. And really, what was one less mercenary-for-hire in the world? He was probably doing everyone a favour.

But something about the thought of Superman's eyes on him from up above, watching him, kept him from doing it. In fact, he didn't even take their guns. Instead, he found himself swiping their smoke grenades and stashing them in his pockets.

Next, he wrapped his grapple firmly around an air-conditioning vent on the edge of the roof and swung off behind the back of the building. It was the most dimly lit side of the compound, and Jason's recon told him that it only contained two security cameras, which he dropped just above, running along the wall and placing one of Roy's loopers on each. They were tiny devices that looped the last thirty seconds of footage over and over, without breaking the feed in a way that was perceptible to the human eye.

From his vantage standing adjacent to the wall as though it were the floor, he spied the lone guard on this side of the building. Pushing himself to a squat he jumped outwards, loosening his grip on the grappling wire at the same time so that he soared downwards in a wide arc, the endpoint of which was his boots squarely in the guard's face.

_So far so good,_ Jason thought to himself. If the guy on monitor duty hadn't noticed the cameras looping yet, he probably wasn't going to, so Jason set about putting all the other loopers in place and dispatching all the guards one-by-one. He even dragged them all back behind the dark side of the building and cable-tied them together, the pile of bodies obscured by a dumpster. He swiped one of their ID badges, just in case, and scurried around to the west side of the building, where the service exit was.

It was here that he'd pick the lock, enter, and then take out all the cameras in the stairwell. Then he'd call Superman, and at the bottom of the stairs they'd find a thick metal hatch that led to the main part of the facility (which, in true bad guy fashion, was underground). He'd need Superman's strength and heat vision to peel back the hatch, and from there they'd have two minutes to get in and out before the cops (and Luthor's private mercenaries) arrived. Then Superman would race to the east side of the facility with his super-speed, grab the schematics Jason had come here for, and Jason would sprint a few hundred metres to the south, crack the lead-lined safe where the kryptonite was being held, and then they'd be home free.

Okay, so maybe he hadn't technically needed Superman for this mission. Sure, his powers would come in handy, and getting to and from Smallville was a lot quicker than getting his hands on the sort of equipment he'd need to break into this place on his own, but he could have done it without the Kryptonian. If Jason were being honest with himself, he had to admit that it was mostly the Kryptonite that had convinced him to call Superman. If there was a magic rock out there that could render Jason useless just by being in proximity to it, he'd want to know where every ounce of the shit was at all times.

_Crunch_.

Jason felt something in his jaw shatter as the distinct sound of breaking bone reverberated in his skull.

“What the…” he muttered, his words slurred from what he could only assume was a broken jaw.

He turned around to face his attacker, arms raised as he prepared to defend himself.

He was just about to make a comment about how things can never just go according to plan, and why can't bad guys just give him _one night_ without trying to kill him, when he realised who he was up against.

There was something a little absurd about her red, white and blue leotard and golden crown against the harshness of this concrete compound. It made Jason want to laugh a little, though he wondered if that was just because he should have known that getting involved with Superman – and by extension with Bruce – again would mean running into the League. He just hadn't expected it to happen quite so soon.

 “Wonder Woman, it's not what it looks like,” he began to say, knowing it was useless.

She lashed out but telegraphed her moves easily. By the time she'd raised her leg to kick him he was already strafing to the side, then ducking under the next one. She was gaining some ground on him, sure, as he stepped backwards into the dark. But so far, she hadn't landed a single hit. Apparently thinking the same thing, she leapt into the air and charged at him, both fists extended outwards in front of her like a missile. She tore through the air, but she missed him again, and ended up knocking over the electric fence he'd been standing in front of.

_So much for stealth_ , he thought, pivoting on his heels so that he was pointed squarely at her. She arose from the mess of chain-link and only seemed to be angrier now. She shouted some unintelligible noise and Jason silently wondered why people with super-strength always seemed to do that; did it really make their powers stronger?

Apparently so, because this time when Wonder Woman shot towards him she was twice as fast, and he couldn't duck her blow. She sent them both into the concrete wall of the LexCorp facility and Jason felt all the air leave his lungs. She pinned him there and raised her fist to his face. No question of what he was doing here, if he was a good guy or a bad guy, if there were perhaps bad guys _inside_ considering the sign on the door said LEXCORP in big bold letters. No, apparently, she was just going to pummel him.

“Pineapple!” he shouted stupidly, raising his forearms to block her blows.

The second he did, he was sure he felt his right ulna shatter and he yelped in pain. He was really starting to hope Superman showed up now to stop this. Not even because the Kryptonian had promised to help him at this point, but just to keep his fellow Leaguer from getting out of control and accidentally killing somebody – which is where Jason really felt this was headed.

“I know who you are, Jason Todd!” Wonder Woman suddenly shrieked, her fists coming up again and again, pulverising his arms.

It was all he could do not to let his guard down, so that she couldn't get at his face. She had him pinned, with both her knees digging into his thighs so deep he thought she might pierce right through them. He hadn't moved, hadn't really resisted. He'd thought if he'd been compliant she would have just taken him in; and Bruce or Superman or someone would have busted his ass out.

But here he was, sinking to the ground in a crater of concrete in what was basically a glorified dark alley, and he didn't have the strength to keep his arms up anymore.

He saw Wonder Woman raise her foot towards his head, and then everything when dark.


	4. Smallville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Swearing, descriptions of injuries, brief mention of child abuse, violence (canon-typical), implied homophobia

###  Chapter 4: Smallville 

When Jason came to he was in agony. There was a throbbing in the back of his skull that felt like it was coming from his brain itself, he was dizzy, and he was sure he was going to puke all over himself, because he definitely couldn't move.

And it was so _bright_. Even without opening his eyes he could see the bright light of the morning through his eyelids. He gritted his teeth, which sent a sharp pain through his jaw, and thought, _I am_ not _a morning person_.

As his senses slowly came back into focus (and boy, he wished they hadn't), he felt soft sheets beneath him and heard the faint hum of an air conditioner somewhere in the room. Everything also smelled faintly of freshly baked cookies and _that_ smell again.

“Dad.”

The word tumbled out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop it or think about why Bruce would be here with him in the daylight, let alone in a house that smelled like cookies.

“Hi,” a voice that wasn't his father's replied softly, and then there was an impossibly large and firm hand in his. “Jason?”

The events of the night caved in around him like a burning building and Jason flinched at the impact. Superman, Wonder Woman and their stupid fucking League. And now his arm was in a sling and he'd be lucky if he could piss on his own let alone fight for _weeks_.

Jason's eyes flew open and he shot his best accusatory glare at Clark. He doubted it was very formidable, but the second he laid eyes on the Kryptonian he knew it didn't have to be. There was no red and blue in this room, just floral-print wallpaper and cream siding. And a pathetic farm boy in jeans and a flannel shirt. His thick-rimmed glasses hid most of his shame, but Jason could smell it on him as clearly as Bruce's cologne. An ugly, rotting stench that made Jason want to push off the bed and hurl himself towards the door.

“You and Wonder Woman nearly killed me,” Jason snarled, “But I'm the one who's too much of a loose cannon to join your merry band of murderous fucking freaks?”

He raised his arms above his head, ignoring the sling and noting how heavy they felt, and how much energy it took from him. He put his hands over his face, wondering how long he could even keep them held there, and tried to ignore the tugging sensation in his chest. He recognised the feeling. Broken rib, probably two.

“She knew who you were,” Clark said meekly.

And then Jason threw himself at the Kryptonian.

Not his smartest move, he'd admit, but at this point there weren't many parts of him left to break. He was slamming sluggish fist after sluggish fist straight into Superman's stupid bespectacled face, and it was doing nothing but bloodying his own knuckles.

He shouted in frustration as they toppled to the floor, Jason on top of his father's boy-toy. And Clark – _Clark_ the goddamn coward -- didn't do anything to block his blows.

He felt slow, and weak, and eventually he grabbed Clark by the collar – more to hold himself upright than anything – and demanded to know what the alien prick (words he might have actually used) thought he was doing.

 “Jason, I know you're angry,” Superman began.

His glasses had been knocked off during the scuffle and there was no more Clark Kent, only the maddening serenity of a man who knew he couldn't be harmed by any number of blows to the face.

“Angry,” Jason repeated, his voice breaking on the word like a preteen.

He let Superman's collar go and sat back on his haunches, now straddling the Kryptonian. If it had been anyone else he might have had them pinned, but he knew Superman could break free any time he wanted. With a sigh that was part-exasperation, part-exhaustion, he realised this was as close to surrender as he'd probably ever get from the Man of Steel.

“You'd better have a fucking good reason for this, Kent,” he growled out, sounding braver than he felt.

Suddenly they were both hovering above the ground, Superman's flight kicking in, and then the alien was scooping him up bridal-style and depositing him back into bed.

Against his better judgement, Jason allowed himself to wonder if he'd ever carried Bruce to bed like that. Sure, it was gross, but Jason found some small sense of satisfaction in knowing that the Batman had been emasculated like this at some point.

Clark floated into the chair beside the bed, where he'd originally been sitting, and wrung his hands in his lap. Now that the glasses were gone Jason could see the full extent of the shame in the farm boy's eyes. They matched the faded, tired blue of his jeans, and Jason immediately began to regret his outburst. This was _Superman_ , he had probably just gotten distracted saving someone's dog from a burning building or something.

“It's not a good reason,” Clark began quietly, his voice low and grim, in contrast with the room they were in; all doilies and lace curtains and fresh flowers. “But it is a reason.”

Jason looked directly at the Man of Steel and rolled his eyes.

“You're talking to the Red Hood, remember?” he snapped. “I'm the king of shitty reasons.”

Clark took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and then he was all Superman again, ready to take it on the chin. He even puffed out his chest a little.

“I can't be seen making exceptions for Bruce's family,” he said boldly, his eyes giving nothing away now.

He seemed so much bigger here in this tiny, feminine room where Jason lay feeling like a child. Only as a child he'd never been weak or helpless. He'd always been a fighter, and he'd hardly ever gotten sick. And now here he was, sick and at the mercy of the only man Batman had ever truly been afraid of.

“Especially not in front of _her_.”

There was venom in his voice when he mentioned Wonder Woman, and Jason could have sworn he saw a glint of red pass over the Kryptonian's eyes.

But Jason didn't understand. Wonder Woman was supposed to be kind, compassionate; the embodiment of all the best parts of humanity (AKA mostly the female parts). And more than that, Diana Prince had always been Bruce's friend.

Jason had known her. She'd been kind (if somewhat too maternal) and had spent many late nights at the Manor; laughing along with Bruce's terrible jokes, being his companion to any celebrity soirees that seemed like they might turn sour, and… Oh.

“Come _on_!” Jason spat, his frustrating spilling over into his voice in a way it hadn't before.

In his mind's eye he saw the Joker, cackling away, and he wondered if his time in Smallville could possibly bring him any closer to becoming the next incarnation of Gotham's most notorious criminal clown.

Clark flinched.

Of all the people in the world to fucking flinch in the presence of his rage, he hadn't expected it from an invincible goddamn alien, and Earth's greatest symbol of hope. It made Jason's stomach flip with instant regret and he immediately felt bile rising in his throat. Even though this whole thing was absolutely, completely Clark's fault, Jason was wracked by guilt for what he was doing to the other man.

Jason was reminded of a time when he was a pre-teen, not long before Bruce had come into his life, when he'd boosted some makeup for a girl on his block. Her parents couldn't afford to buy her any makeup, but she'd said she wanted to be as pretty as everyone at else at school. Jason recalled thinking that she was very beautiful, but he hadn’t had the guts to tell her, so he'd gone down to the local pharmacy and walked out with half the cosmetics section instead.

He remembered rubbing the glittery powders and pastes onto his hand, holding it up to the light and seeing it shimmer as he rotated his arm back and forth. He'd kind of liked it, though he would have never admitted it at the time. But he'd liked this girl even more. So, when she asked him if she could try some of it out on him, he'd said yes without really thinking about the consequences.

In retrospect, it had just been a little eyeliner and brow filler, but his father had still blackened both his eyes for it (and not with makeup). Ironically, his crush on this girl – whose name he now couldn't even recall – and his desire to please her, had been about the straightest thing Jason had ever done.

Nowadays Jason wore eyeliner almost every time he went out, a little fuck you to his dear old dad. But looking at Clark's straight cut jeans and well-worn flannel, he could tell the other man wasn't exactly at the 'fuck you' stage of his sexuality yet.

“I almost died because Wonder Woman and Superman are both in love with a guy in a latex bat-suit,” he finally said hysterically, feeling a crazed laugh bubbling just beneath his words. He didn't dare let it out.

Instead he just laid there, mouth agape, resisting the urge to make some half-assed pun about how they certainly weren't in Kansas anymore (although of course they were).

_Fucking Smallville_.


	5. Clark Kent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Smoking, mentions of death

###  Chapter 5: Clark Kent 

When Jason next awoke he felt relieved. Not only was the room mercifully bereft of Clark's puppy dog eyes, but it was also dark, and he felt a lot better.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he took his time to sit up, stretch his arms and legs (as best he could) and turn on the dusty lamp beside him.

When he stood, his bare feet were met with cool hardwood, and he immediately began to focus on keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible. He wasn't sure what the time was, and he didn't want to wake up Clark's parents, who he presumed would be sleeping somewhere down the hall.

From the looks of things, Clark had laid out Jason's jeans and a spare t-shirt on the dresser at the other end of the room. There was also a pair of clean socks. It was the type of thoughtful, subtle gesture Jason hadn't had from anyone since he'd still lived with Alfred. Maybe Kent was fussing over him because he felt guilty, but Jason had a strange feeling that it was just in the Kansan's nature.

It took him longer than he would have liked to shimmy into his tight jeans and throw on his second borrowed shirt of the week. Unlike the previous one that had been black and too tight, this one was white and far too big. From the size he deduced it was Clark's, and he wondered if it was weird to be wearing a shirt your dad's lover gave to you. Jason tried not to think too hard about that.

Jason padded quietly down the hallway, careful to turn off the lamp on his way out. None of his other things seemed to be in the bedroom, and he guessed that Clark had stashed them in the barn.

It was only then that it clicked that Clark really was a fucking cliché in every possible sense: when he wasn't going all _Brokeback Mountain_ he was an alien who literally hid in a barn. Jason smirked at that, all his earlier anger having dissipated.

He shook his head and focused on the task at hand; he had to find Superman. He had a whole lot of questions that only the Kryptonian could answer. The first of which were 'how long have I been asleep' and 'why didn't Wonder Woman even bother to arrest me'.

Adjacent to the room Jason was staying in there was a door left ajar. The warm light of a lamp peeked through it into the otherwise dark hall. He walked towards it, not paying as much mind to his footfalls now, knowing if Superman was in there he'd hear him regardless.

Sure enough, this was Superman’s room. The walls were painted a baby blue – _strangely fitting_ , Jason thought – and all the furniture was hardwood. A tall shelf full of books with brightly coloured spines sat in one corner, letting Jason know this place hadn't changed much since Superman was a kid (and boy, there was a weird thought). The rest of the room was adorned with trophies, medals and ribbons for various sporting events. A tiny gold boy throwing a football, a larger bronze boy holding a baseball bat. It seemed Clark, in his youth, hadn't been afraid to use his powers to gain an advantage over his schoolmates.

Jason could hardly blame him; if his crime-fighting skills had allowed him to one-up the kids in his class, he would have. Bruce had gotten him into Gotham Academy, of course, but his Lower Gotham accent had never really faded and the other rich kids – the ones who'd been raised rich – never quite took a shine to him. Not that it mattered; he'd missed most of his senior years in school anyway. He'd been too busy crime-fighting, but at least technically he'd graduated (thanks to a few bribes from Bruce).

Jason dug his hands into his pockets as he watched Superman – no, Clark – bent over the tiny bed on his knees, hands clasped together. He was praying, Jason realised, and his prayer was loud enough to hear.

“… I almost let a boy die,” he whispered, turning his head slightly as though flinching away from God's wrath, “to protect something you probably think is a sin anyway.” A heavy sigh, followed by, “I'm not asking for forgiveness, I just need a little room to breathe. Just please, take this burden away from me.”

Maybe it was all the time he'd spent with Kori, troubled as she was, that gave Jason the instinctive knowledge that Clark was talking about his powers.

He didn't finish his prayer with a customary 'amen', but instead raised his voice to address the other humanised embodiment of his guilt.

“Jason,” he said, clearing his throat, “I'm-”

“Not the monster you think you are,” Jason finished for him, looking squarely at the back of the man's head.

He had so many memories of telling Kori, and nearly every Meta he'd ever met, that same thing. Thinking about them all made his chest feel tight, but in that moment he'd never meant those words more.

For a second, he allowed himself to wonder who the world needed more: Clark Kent, or Superman. He wasn't sure there was a fair answer, but looking at this Godly man bent over in prayer, Jason knew which one his father needed more.

“Do you love him?” Jason asked.

Clark blurted out a 'yes' before Jason even finished.

“Then I don't know about God, but you and me? We're good.”

Clark gave him no sign that he was going to speak or move from his position on the floor, so Jason crossed the threshold of the room and bent down to help him up. He didn't really help, because his arms were still like jelly, but Superman stood nonetheless. Before he did, though, Jason found himself wrapping an arm around his shoulders and mustering his most reassuring voice – his most Robin voice.

“Being in love isn't a sin, Clark,” he said. “It can't be.”

That was enough to get a watery smile out of the Kansan journalist, and Jason would take that as a victory. Whatever else had happened, whatever Luthor had his hands on right now, a day when Superman could smile was a day when the rest of the world could breathe easy.

Jason guided them downstairs and towards the front door where he found his jacket, boots and bike pouch in a neat pile beside three other sets of shoes and jackets. Clark took one of the sets and put them on silently while Jason tied his laces.

“What time is it?” he asked, and that seemed to snap Clark out of his reverie.

“Oh,” he said, lifting off the ground and floating across the living room and into the kitchen. When he returned, he had a cell phone in his hand and he just said, “I charged it for you.”

Jason took his phone and entered the pin, checking to see the date and time. It was 11PM which, frankly, was early by his standards, and he'd lost about three days to his injuries.

“Friday night,” he muttered, following Clark out the front door.

He secured his bike pouch around his back on the way out and then stood on the front porch to fish his cigarettes out. This time, Clark had a lighter to give him and, though he took one, he didn't use his heat vision to light his cigarette.

Watching Superman light up a cigarette with a lighter seemed more comfortable somehow, and simultaneously more foreign. There was something about the tiny device in Superman's big hands that was so unnatural, like a warning that Kryptonians weren't supposed to smoke.

Silence stretched between them as the crickets and cicadas grew louder, until they were surrounded by an enveloping din. It was peaceful, and Jason thought he was beginning to figure out why Clark still lived all the way out here. It was no Fortress of Solitude, but it felt like a home.

“Friday night,” he repeated after a while, chewing on the thought and wondering if he really had the guts to suggest what he was about to. “You know it's always the busiest night of the week in Gotham.”


	6. Green Arrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Graphic description of sex, description of physical injuries, ambiguous/possibly unhealthy relationship (including sexual relationship), homophobic language (used in a reclaimed way by an LGBT+ person)

###  Chapter 6: Green Arrow 

In the Kent family barn Jason changed once again into his Red Hood suit. It was a little tough to manoeuvre over his injuries, but once it was on he felt like his whole body was in a compression bandage. He felt stronger, like the suit was an exoskeleton holding him upright.

His guns were still on the side of the highway somewhere, but Jason found he didn't mind much. He wouldn't be able to bring himself to use them in front of Superman anyway, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to let Bruce see him shoot someone again either. Not now, not after he'd found out what he and his father shared.

“Ready?” Clark asked from outside, and Jason called back his affirmation as he pressed his domino mask over his eyes.

There was a mirror and a makeshift sink made from a metal tub in one corner of the barn. Jason caught a glimpse of himself in it.

The red bat stretched across his chest and the equally red domino mask made Red Hood look like Nightwing's counterpart from another dimension. He hated how alike they were: black hair, blue eyes, strong jaws. But Dick was leaner than he was; slimmer, but with broader hips. Impossibly broad hips that Jason remembered digging his nails into at the start of the week.

It had been just before sunrise, after their patrols, and Jason was grunting as he recklessly slammed his hips against Dick's, their skin slapping gratuitously together and cutting through the darkness that engulfed them. They'd both had their pants tugged roughly down around their thighs – Dick still in his Nightwing suit – and Dick had been whimpering – begging – but Jason had ignored him. They never spoke during those encounters – well, Dick spoke, and Jason ignored him – and they never kissed.

That night Dick had been especially mouthy, begging Jason to touch him. It was a fair request, considering that during every one of their recent encounters Jason had simply pinned Dick on his stomach, stretched him open and taken him, with little regard for his older counterpart's pleasure.

Jason had started to feel a little guilty about it, so that night he'd adjusted the angle of their bodies until he was slamming against Dick's prostate with every thrust. Usually he'd have finished on Dick's pretty little ass and left him to handle his own erection and the clean-up, but tonight Dick came with a cry – _Jay!_ – ribbons of cum painting the sheets beneath him. He hadn't even touched himself, it had just been Jason working his prostate. The thought sent Jason spiralling over the edge.

And then, well, then Jason had done something very embarrassing and impossibly stupid.

"Ungh, shit, _Dick_!" he'd cried out, finishing inside of his partner for the first time in the months they'd been doing this.

Somehow some of his cum had ended up on his shirt, and as he was hastily tugging his pants back on he'd declared, "I'm borrowing a shirt.”And then he'd skipped town like a perp running from the scene of a crime.

"Jason, are you coming?"

The sound of Superman's firm voice broke Jason out of his memory.

He took one last wistful look at the face he saw in the mirror. He wasn't quite sure if he was seeing Dick Grayson or Jason Todd staring back at him. But for once, he didn't hate what he saw. Hell, if two of the founding members of the Justice League could be Big Gay Superheroes, maybe he could be too.

Mercifully, Superman had arranged for them to be transported to Gotham via Boom Tube (although that also meant a short changeover at The Watchtower), and there was one just a few clicks north of Smallville's town centre.

Superman's flight made short work of the distance, and before long Jason was gracefully landing back on solid ground. Injuries or not, he still knew how to stick a landing.

"So," he drawled.

They were walking towards the abandoned shell of a building that Jason assumed housed the Kansas Boom Tube.

"Does the League have one of these in every small town, or is this one especially for you?"

Superman smirked back at him.

"Just for their fearless leader," the Kryptonian said dryly.

And if Jason didn't know better he would have thought that was a joke.

"Fearless leader," Jason quipped.

They traversed the gutted innards of the building. What had it been before this? A hospital?

"Or Big Gay Boy Scout," he continued with a dirty smirk, earning a glare from the Kryptonian.

"Just don't go saying that too loud while we're on The Watchtower," Superman chided.

There was something in his expression that Jason couldn't quite read though. It reminded him a little of the way Clark had looked at him when he'd first woken up in the Kents' spare room.

He couldn't place it, so instead he said, "I can't believe they're letting me up there."

It was the truth; a vulnerability that he thought might bring back some of the Clark-Kent-softness that Jason had grown accustomed to over the last few days.

It didn't seem to work though, because Superman just clenched his jaw and said, "Yeah."

"Clark," Jason began, reaching out to grab the other man's arm.

He shrugged it off as though Jason were a fly, but Jason pressed on.

"Look, I'm not exactly straight either, okay?"

When Superman turned to face him, Jason knew exactly what he'd seen in his face earlier. Confusion, alienation, frustration, a little bit of fear. Now Superman's face was all of that as well as uncertain, maybe even timid.

"I wasn't making fun of you for being gay," Jason explained softly.

Then he smiled, because for once the truth was coming easily to him.

"I'm proud of you," he said.

In that moment his heart really did swell with pride. As it did, it seemed to lift some of the weight that had been crushing his chest for years. Maybe this is what Bruce and everyone else had always meant when they said Superman was hope.

"Makes me think there might be some hope for the rest of us fags, you know?"

Jason smiled, and Superman didn't smile back, but he did nod towards the Boom Tube.

"It's ready for you," he said.

Superman’s eyes softened as his mouth turned up at the corners slightly. It wasn't quite a smile, but it said everything Jason could have asked it to.

Jason stepped through the Boom Tube and prepared for some type of discomfort, some sensation that indicated all his atoms had just been ripped apart and put back together again.

But it didn't come, and he stepped out onto the main floor of The Watchtower to a crowd of prying eyes.

“ _Recognised_ ,” the Watchtower’s security system said.

She had the clear metallic tone of every WayneTech computer system, and Jason recognised it immediately. He hadn’t heard it since the last time he was in the Batcave, and the memory of it felt like an electrostatic shock to the back of his spine.

“ _Robin. Bee-Zero-Fifteen_ ,” she finished.

Half the heads in the room turned to look at him then, either recognising the long-retired code or wondering who the hell this guy using Robin’s name was. Amongst the crowd were Martian Manhunter, who was manning a complex computer system and barely spared him a look, the Green Lantern known as John Stewart, and the even greener Green Arrow. It was Arrow who looked the most interested, his face flashing with something like concern.

Jason’s heart leapt into his throat as he spied Wonder Woman on one of the upper balconies. She began to descend, like a great angel of death, the second she spotted him.

But Jason only had eyes for Green Arrow. He gave the archer a tentative wave, trying to assuage any fears he might have had about Roy’s safety. He was Jason’s teammate, after all, and surely Red Hood being on The Watchtower meant something catastrophic was happening.

Jason thought of Superman and Batman’s relationship and supposed that in a way it was pretty catastrophic.

“ _Recognised: Superman Zero-One_ ,” the WayneTech AI said.

The announcement was punctuated by the sound of Wonder Woman’s boots landing heavily against the floor just a foot or so away from Jason.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Jason wondered if she was addressing him or Superman.

To his credit, Jason didn't flinch. He wasn't really scared of her, at least not now he knew that she was basically a lovesick puppy.

"Escorting our ally home," Superman said firmly.

The line was well-rehearsed, like he'd anticipated this confrontation and wanted there to be no room for doubt.

"He's a criminal," Wonder Woman replied darkly.

It wasn't an accusation, but a statement of fact. Jason saw the ears of almost every other Leaguer in the room prick up at the word.

Throughout The Watchtower’s atrium heroes and vigilantes with varying degrees of super-hearing took stock of him. Jason let his eyes linger on each of them for _just_ long enough; he wanted them all to know he knew they were watching.

Then he drank in the room like a tourist: all polished, cold steel and reinforced glass giving way to the vastness of space. He could see the domed plane of the Earth in the distance, its surface a swirl of green, white and blue.

They were standing on a raised platform in the centre of the main atrium of the Tower, which Jason knew as the centre of operations (he’d studied the schematics a long time ago, preparing for the sort of contingency scenario that Batman would dream up in his nightmares). J’onn J’onzz, the Martian Manhunter, stood vigil here, using his superior intellect and telepathy to guide each and every deployed member of the League, from the smallest jewellery store robbery to the exploits of Superman himself.

This was also the transit hub: where Manhunter could bark last-minute orders at the teams before they deployed, or bicker with them about their assigned cases and partners. The latter, Jason thought, was what had been going on when his dead, sidekick ass had interrupted.

Having swept the whole room, Jason’s eyes now came to rest again on Wonder Woman, who seemed to be channelling some of Clark’s heat-vision to bore a hole right through the middle of Jason’s forehead.

To Jason's immense surprise it was Green Arrow who stepped forward and came to his defence. After all the time Jason had spent 'corrupting' Roy, he couldn't fathom why Arrow saw fit to defend him. But frankly, he wasn't sure Clark could take the heat from Wonder Woman right now, so he let it happen.

"Batman vouched for him and his friends," Arrow said calmly.

He must have thought Bruce's word alone would be enough to placate Wonder Woman. But Superman's word a moment ago hadn't been.

"And you'd know all about his little friends, wouldn't you, _Oliver_?" Wonder Woman spat.

While Jason reeled at the careless way she threw a fellow Leaguer's secret identity around -- especially in front of a so-called 'criminal' -- Wonder Woman stalked away, shouldering people out of the way as she passed. Amongst them were a few masks Jason recognised, mostly low-level Leaguers like Plastic Man and Vigilante.

Arrow appeared to be reeling at the use of his name just as Jason was, so Jason took a step forward and did what he figured Bruce would have done in the same situation. Well, what Bruce would have done if there weren't a dozen or so Leaguers watching. But Jason had never had the same fears about his reputation that Bruce had.

He placed a hand on Arrow's bicep and squeezed reassuringly. He gave the archer the most sympathetic look he could through his mask.

"I'll tell Arsenal to call you when I see him," Jason said earnestly.

He didn't exactly know how Roy would feel about that, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

"And I'll forget what I just heard," he added when Arrow's frown only seemed to deepen.

"Just take care of him, Red," Arrow finally sighed.

Then Superman was guiding Jason away towards another Boom Tube; the one that would take them to Gotham.

Superman went first this time, and as Jason stepped through he turned around at the last second to send a nod in Green Arrow's direction.

 

It wasn't every day a member of the Justice League stuck their neck out for you -- hell, a few days ago someone among their ranks had tried to kill him -- and Jason was going to make sure he kept his promise to Arrow.

…Even if Roy was probably going to bicker with him about it for a week.


	7. Robin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Graphic depiction of violence (canon typical), mention of death, implied mention of child abuse/CSA

###  Chapter 7: Robin 

Jason was already tuning his in-ear commlink to the Bat family frequency when they emerged from the scrapyard in Lower Gotham that hid the Boom Tube.

Superman seemed unsure of himself, almost like he didn't know where to go, and it took Jason a second to realise that this wasn't his turf. It wasn't really Jason's anymore either, but Jason had already slipped back into his old patterns.

"Why don't you go find your, ah, friend," Jason said awkwardly.

Because really, how was he supposed to describe Superman's relationship with his dad? He felt gross calling them lovers, and 'boyfriend' seemed so juvenile.

"I'm gonna go see if the Bat-brains need any help with the robbery a couple blocks over."

Jason didn't think any of the Bat family would actually want his help, but he needed to prove to himself that he could still kick ass despite almost being killed by a superhuman a few days ago.

He was sore, and he had a few fractured bones, sure, but since the Lazarus Pit he'd always healed better than a normal human (though he tried not to think too hard about that).

Superman just nodded, keeping his jaw firm, but Jason could see in his eyes that he was grateful.

The Kryptonian bounded into the air and flew out of sight almost immediately, disappearing into the forest of skyscrapers that made up the upper canopy of Gotham City.

It was an inspiring sight; Superman's bright red cape in stark contrast against the bleak greys and chromes of Gotham's polluted night. Even now, Jason still loved it here -- but god it could be depressing. But the whipping of Superman's cape, like a flag in the wind, made him want to rise above the dark and keep this place safe. It made him want to take over for Bruce for a few nights and give his old man some time to spend with Clark. And boy, wasn't that the craziest idea he'd ever had.

He was still shaking his head at the notion as he shot his grappling hook up at the roof of a nearby building and swung away in the general direction of the jewellery store that was being robbed.

It had been Oracle in his ear who'd called attention to the crime (as it always was) and it had been Damian who'd answered it. Well, technically he supposed it had been Robin, but Jason still had a few unresolved issues when it came to that name.

Suddenly Oracle's voice was in his ear again and she sounded tense. _No_ , Jason thought, _she sounds scared_.

"Is there anyone in Lower Gotham who can back Damian up?" she asked frantically.

And yep, if she was using his name then something was definitely wrong.

"I'm at least fifteen minutes out," Tim replied, his voice hurried. 

When no one else responded to the call Oracle tried again, more desperately this time.

By then Jason was half a block away and sprinting across a rooftop towards the sound of shouting, metal on concrete, and a series of heart-rending thuds.

The fact that Damian wasn't on the radio snarking about how he was fine made Jason's heart skip a beat.

He hadn't worked with the Bat family much, but when he'd been living in Blüdhaven he'd intercepted their comms occasionally and listened in. Usually, Damian was one of the cockiest of the bunch.

"I'm only a street away!" Jason replied, nearly shouting as he leapt between two rooftops and somersaulted before landing on his feet.

He didn't dare slow his pace, even as Oracle shouted, "Jason? What the hell!"

He could hear them now, a lot of guys all gloating and talking amongst themselves.

At least half a dozen of them, he figured, and they were all in the alleyway between his building and the one in front of him.

As he leapt off his building and onto a fire escape above their heads he took stock of the situation: eight guys, all with crowbars, baseball bats or two-by-fours, staring down at a limp and lifeless green and red body.

One of them was leering about how much fun it would be to 'play' with Damian while he was unconscious, and he took the first boot to the head.

Jason knocked the guy out cold and landed on top of him.

Some protective instinct deep within him took over then, because Jason grabbed the guy's baseball bat and cracked it over the head of the next closest guy.

They looked like nothing more than common thugs, albeit big ones, but Jason kept his eyes peeled for a trick. They looked like the types of guys whose services could be bought and paid for.

"You know I never really played Little League as a kid," he snarled at one of the guys who lunged towards him.

Jason easily disarmed him and swept his legs out from under him.

As he raised the bat above his head and used it to knock the guy out he said, "I think I would have been good at it, don't you?"

A fourth guy jumped onto his back while he was busy making his witty remark, and Jason threw him off. The guy was heavy, but Jason still managed to propel him with enough force to knock him into the alley wall.

Jason sprinted towards Damian then, right into the thick of the crowd where the last four guys were.

He didn't spare a second to take stock of the boy's unconscious form. Instead, he ran for the kid's sword -- a big, gaudy thing that Ducra would have told him was impractical -- and then bounded up the closest wall.

He arched backwards over the heads of the thugs and landed on one guy's shoulders, slicing another's arm.

The one with the sliced arm ran away and Jason instinctively threw a bola at the guy's feet, catching him easily and leaving him there wriggling and crying out in pain.

As all this unfolded the guy Jason was standing on collapsed under his weight, and Jason finished him off with a boot to the back of the skull.

Now there were only two thugs left standing, and Jason paused to hit his comm and ask Oracle, "The kid's still breathing, right?"

Before she could respond Jason was charging at one of the last two men, aiming just past him to hit him with an arm-bar before slamming the oddly familiar-feeling hilt of Damian's sword into the back of his neck.

The last thug dropped to his knees and threw his crowbar away just as Oracle said, "Barely, you need to get him home."

Jason's eyes darkened as he looked down at the pathetic man grovelling before him.

He raised Damian's sword and pressed the tip right under the thug's fleshy chin, drawing just a pinprick of blood. He was saying something, but Jason wasn't hearing it; he was too busy glancing back at Damian.

"I'll do anything, whoever you are," the guy whimpered, snapping Jason out of his thoughts and making him realise that no one had recognised him without his helmet.

"The Red Hood doesn't wear a hood anymore," he snarled.

He tossed Damian's sword near where the boy's unconscious body lay and dragged the thug to his feet. He forced the guy onto the tips of his toes and cuffed him to the ladder of the fire escape above, so that his feet weren't _quite_ touching the ground.

Jason had been captured and forced to hang like that dozens of times in his career and his shoulders ached just thinking about it.

"Now you're Batman's problem," he spat.

He turned on his heel to gather up Damian's discarded sword and sheath, and then the boy himself.

As Jason sprinted away with the tiny boy in his arms, he finally looked at him properly. His face was bloody, bruises already colouring his eye sockets and jaw purple, and Jason didn't dare think about the internal bleeding.

He was still young, so he'd bounce back quick, but Jason tried not to jostle him too much, even as he frantically searched for whatever vehicle Damian had arrived here in.

Unfortunately, Damian's chosen mode of transportation was a bike that was hardly made for transporting the injured. But Jason made do.

He sat Damian, still unconscious, firmly in his lap on the front of the bike and secured him as best he could with one arm. It wasn't like Jason had never ridden a bike one-handed before; as Red Hood his whole schtick had been to use one hand for his bike and one for his gun.

Scooping up the kickstand with his foot and revving the engine, Jason tapped his radio again.

Oracle had been hounding him with questions this whole time -- Tim had been chiming in too -- but Jason had drowned it out. He'd gotten tunnel vision when he saw Damian like that, so helpless and small.

"I've got him," Jason said shortly.

He didn’t want to play twenty questions while he tried to dodge Gotham's late-night traffic one-handed.

"I'm bringing him to the Cave."


	8. Bruce Wayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Swearing, mention of violence and death, implied grief, crying, violence (canon-typical)

###  Chapter 8: Bruce Wayne 

Jason tapped his foot impatiently against the grating beneath his feet. The metallic sound reverberated throughout the cave and eventually came back to him.

Tim made another impatient sound beside him, and Jason wondered if he was frustrated by the noise Jason was making.

Apparently not, because after a moment Tim shouted, "Who the hell were these guys?!" and slammed his fists down on the Batcomputer's centre console.

Jason took his mask off then, placing it beside Tim's on the console, and raked a rough hand over his face.

Tim looked startled by the movement and stared, wide-eyed, at Jason's revealed face.

Tim was his replacement -- the kid who'd had to grow up haunted by Jason's ghost -- and Jason didn't envy him. He'd left a tragedy on their mutual mentor's conscience.

And here Jason was now, selfish as ever, realising that this was the first time Tim had ever seen him without a mask on.

"Look," Jason began, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

He wasn't all that tired physically -- it had only been one fight, after all -- but emotionally he felt like he'd been gutted like a fish. Between finding out about Bruce and Clark, having Dick fucking Grayson on his mind, and now Damian…

He figured Tim needed some words of assurance, but Jason could only muster pessimism.

"Sometimes common thugs get the best of us," he said plainly, shrugging his shoulders. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"No," Tim protested, his voice firm but rough around the edges.

His eyes were a little wet, and Jason was so not about to see his replacement cry.

"Not Damian, not us. We're better than that."

"Tim," Jason began, his voice softer this time.

He wasn't sure where this strength was coming from -- maybe Superman was rubbing off on him -- but the look in Tim's eyes as his predecessor said his name aloud for the first time ever spurred him on.

"Sometimes-"

And then the man himself arrived.

Batman, with Superman in tow.

They both looked like shit, Jason noted, as Bruce came careening through the Manor entrance of the Batcave and hurled himself down the stairs.

Both of their costumes were torn in several places, and Superman's big bright 'S' was singed and smudged with black.

As Bruce shouted, "Damian!" Jason took stock of his father and mentor's limp, and the way he was flinching with every long stride he took.

The way his arm kept jerking towards his torso made Jason think he had some kind of abdominal injury, but he did a good job of keeping his pained movements almost imperceptible.

Nobody else seemed to be concerned for the Bat, except maybe Superman. Instead, they all corralled around him, barking out facts about Damian's condition and what they knew about the perps so far.

When the Bat clan had explained how Damian got back to the Cave safely, Bruce spun on his heel to face Jason.

Jason was sure that Bruce hadn't expected him to be without his helmet, let alone his mask, and Jason could tell he was taken aback by it. But every second he spent staring at Jason, was a second he didn't spend by Damian's side.

So, Jason stalked across the atrium of the Cave towards the med-bay where Bruce had been headed. He scooped Bruce up easily with one arm, guiding his father towards where Damian lay.

If he'd made Bruce uncomfortable, the old man didn't show it, but he did tug off his mask before anyone else entered the room.

He shot Jason an unreadable look.

Jason was soon pushed to the back of the crowd as Oracle took her place by Damian's bedside, with Alfred playing nurse opposite her. Bruce stood over the end of his son's bed, eyes for only him, as Tim assaulted his left ear and Dick assaulted his right.

In the doorway of the small, sterile room stood Jason and Superman, shoulder-to-shoulder.

"What happened to you?" Jason murmured, voice so low he wondered if anyone bar Superman would be able to hear him.

"Laboratory fire at WayneTech," Superman muttered back.

He tipped his head slightly towards Jason's ear.

"Got everyone out and then tried to salvage as much of the research as we could. Batman's convinced it was arson."

"He's going to need you today," Jason breathed, just as Bruce's voice rose to a shout over everyone else.

"Where were all of you?" he demanded, voice booming and venomous all in one.

There was a thickness to it, like he was holding back tears under the Bruce-Wayne-mask that was almost as well-worn as the Bat cowl.

"None of you were there!" he shouted, levelling accusatory glares at Tim, Dick, even Barbara. "He's still in training!" 

Now Bruce's breathing had become ragged, and he was looking around the room like he desperately wanted someone to punch or something to throw.

"Bruce, no one could have known-" Dick began, reaching out to place a hand on Bruce's shoulder.

"Yeah, Bruce, it's not like-" Tim began at the same time.

But Bruce just shrugged them both off, stumbling backwards towards the doorway.

Jason and Superman parted in unison, stepping aside so he could stumble backwards into the med-bay corridor.

Dick and Tim began again, and this time Barbara pitched in too, but it didn't seem like Bruce could hear them. The din they were making was insufferable, and Jason wouldn't have been surprised if it had been enough to rouse Damian from unconsciousness. 

Finally, Jason raised his palm and held it up right in Dick and Tim's faces, before turning towards Bruce.

Dick pushed his hand away roughly and _of course_ Dick was mad at him, even though he'd just saved their youngest family member's life. 

The ruckus continued, Bruce tearing off his gloves and throwing them to the floor, still stumbling like he didn't know where he was.

Superman didn't seem like he had any idea what to do, and Jason could hardly blame him. Clearly no one in the room was thinking straight except for him.

 " _Dad!_ " he finally shouted over the noise.

The silence that came afterwards seemed to envelop the whole Cave, save for the faint beeping of Damian's heart monitor. 

It had been years -- maybe almost a decade -- since Jason had called Bruce that. And even then, he'd never done it with anyone else around. Now he'd said it in front of the whole family; one not-quite father, one lover, one not-quite daughter, two not-quite sons and one real son -- two real sons. One laying in a hospital bed inches from being lost, and one who had literally been lost. 

Jason slammed the door of Damian's room shut with Tim, Dick, Oracle and Alfred still inside, figuring it'd buy him a few seconds. He skidded on his knees across the cold steel floor to where Bruce now sat, slumped against the wall opposite his lifeless son's body. 

"Dad," Jason said, lowering his voice lest anyone in the next room hear him, "Dad he's not me."

And then, fuck, Bruce was crying.

His body was wracked with sobs; it was like a dam had broken and now a tidal wave crashed forth, sweeping Bruce and Jason's bodies away with it. Jason was shaking when he embraced his father and wrapped an arm around his head, letting Bruce bury his face in the rough Kevlar of his suit so the others didn't have to see him like this. 

"He's not me, dad, I promise, he's not me," Jason chanted while Bruce mumbled something broken that sounded like 'my son'.

Which son, Jason didn't know. 

The door opened then, and Tim and Dick came bursting through.

Jason figured they were half expecting Jason to have done something murderous, but the truth of the matter was far more uncomfortable.

Oracle and Alfred emerged then as well and took in the sight before them.

None of them had known what to do a minute ago, and they certainly didn't know what to do now. 

"You four need to give us a minute," Jason ordered, doing his best impression of Batman's voice and shooting a look over his shoulder at the Bat-clan. 

Dick looked like he was about to protest as his features contorted into some mixed emotion that Jason would lie awake analysing later. But Alfred put one hand on Dick's shoulder and the other on Tim’s and led them away with Barbara in tow.

No one dared question why Superman could stay, but Jason was certain they didn't know about Clark and Bruce's relationship. If they had, Clark wouldn't have been standing there looking halfway between terrified and heartbroken.

"Help me get him up," Jason said to Superman, looping one arm under Bruce's and attempting to drag the old man to his feet. 

Bruce was almost limp now, body still shaking with the occasional sob, and Clark had to take over to get him all the way to his feet. Together, Jason and Clark guided Bruce into Damian's room and got him seated in a chair right by his son.

The heart monitor was the only sound in the room as Jason took a spare chair and placed it right beside his father's. Clark drifted to one side, just off the ground, as though he was making room for Jason to walk past him and sit down in that chair. But Jason only took Clark's hand and guided him into the seat beside Bruce, holding onto said hand long enough to take Bruce's and join the two together. 

Bruce looked up from his lap then. His eyes were wild with fear and his face was slicked with tears. His skin was getting blotchy and his nose was a little red. Jason had never seen him look this bad. Still, the fear in his eyes in that moment wasn't for Damian, it was because he knew that Jason knew.

Jason could already hear footsteps as someone -- probably Dick -- came back down the hallway. Jason figured that would happen. The second the four of them had gotten back into the atrium of the Cave they would have all decided that Jason was untrustworthy and couldn't be allowed around Bruce in this state.

So as fast as he could, and without really thinking about it, Jason knelt, took Clark and Bruce's linked hands in both of his own, and kissed them. 

Before he could unpack the emotions unfurling across Bruce's already ravaged features, Jason was up and moving towards the door, which he yanked open, stepped through, and closed again behind him. 

"He needs a minute," he was saying before he even knew who was standing there.

And then he was getting sucker-punched by a superhero for the second time this week.


	9. Nightwing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Violence (canon-typical), crying, swearing, mentions of death, ambiguous/implied unhealthy relationship, brief mention of sex

###  Chapter 9: Nightwing 

If there was one thing Jason was glad of right now, it was that Nightwing didn't hit nearly as hard as Wonder Woman did. Sure, Jason was still reeling from it, but at least one punch couldn't shatter all his teeth and every bone in his face simultaneously… Probably.

He raised his arms up defensively, not willing to punch back. Not here, not with Damian lying half-dead and Bruce losing his mind, and not when he'd just done his first bit of crimefighting in years without shooting anybody. 

He dodged a few uncharacteristically lazy punches from Dick, including one that was so obviously telegraphed Jason managed to avoid it _and_ tackle Dick to the ground. Once he had his older counterpart pinned he realised why. 

"Shit, Dick," he said.

They mimicked the words he’d said a few nights prior. Hell, he was even on top of him again now, and Jason could tell that's what the other man was thinking as well. 

Dick was crying. God, was everyone going to cry tonight? And he was lashing out with his arms like he was trying to stop Jason from seeing.

But Jason pinned his arms down under his knees and Dick didn't seem to have the fight left in him to break out of the amateur hold. 

For a second, Dick seemed to pull himself together, sniffling and boring his eyes into Jason's.

He was still in the Nightwing get-up, minus the mask, but Jason had seen that costume around the guy's ankles one too many times to be intimidated by it. 

"I hate you," Dick growled, looking right into Jason's eyes.

Jason wasn't sure if he meant it, and he didn't think Dick knew if he meant it either, but Jason threw his hands up in protest regardless. 

"Why, huh?" he asked.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realised that he sounded shrill, like he was Dick's long-suffering wife or something.

"What did I do this time, Grayson?" he continued, turning on his patented Jason Todd attitude.

He was all stubbornness and indignance now.

"I save the Baby Bird's life, I do it without killing anyone – even when I saw him lying there and had to wonder if he was as dead as I was!"

That earned a wince from the other man, who turned his head in what might have been shame.

"I'm not even _carrying_ a gun anymore, and I'm not wearing the Hood. Hell, I came here via The Watchtower with _fucking Superman_!"

Jason threw his hands up above his head and looked to the sky, suddenly aware that he'd been gesturing wildly with them this whole time. He looked around at the steel scaffolding above him, like maybe Clark's God had something to say about all this. Of course, he didn't, but at this point anything was worth a shot. 

"What have I done to be worthy of your hatred, Nightwing?" he asked, lowering his voice.

And – fuck – he never called Dick 'Nightwing', not unless he absolutely had to. It was a low blow, and Jason knew it the moment he said it. 

"I hate you," Dick snarled, tears almost completely dried up now, "because I'm supposed to come in here and ask you to come back for good." 

Perversely, in that moment Jason saw all of Dick's bravery splayed out before him.

Here he was, with his on-again-off-again lover-slash-brother pinning him to the ground. He was defenceless, couldn't even raise his arms to shield his face if he wanted to. There were no masks or secret identities between them. None of the smoke-and-mirrors they'd learned to use to keep people at arm's length. Jason could just… see him. All of him. Every last pathetic inch and Dick still had the guts to ask him to come back. 

"If you hadn't been there tonight," Dick continued, "Damian would be dead."

He paused to swallow and shoot a glance at the door to Damian's room; where Bruce and Clark still sat, hand-in-hand.

"We're spread too thin, and Tim and I can't be here all the time – neither can Bruce." 

Jason was starting to see the bigger picture now: Nightwing had the Junior Leaguers – and Tim was there half the time now too – and Bruce had the League. So, Damian had Gotham; all on his own at barely twelve. And even with the whole team together tonight, Damian had still been jumped by a couple of jewellery store thieves. 

But the thought of coming back here permanently, of making Gotham – the Manor – his home again made his stomach churn. 

So instead he said, with the arrogance everyone had come to expect from Jason Todd, "That's not why you hate me, Grayson." 

Something seemed to snap in Dick then, because his expression went dark – as dark as Bruce's in his lowest moments.

Without a heartbeat of hesitation, he said, "I hate you for making me fall in love with you."

And then the moment of darkness was gone, and it was like it took something from Dick that he could never get back, like something inside him just _broke_. And Dick was crying like he just plainly didn't care what Jason thought of him anymore. It was desperate and howling and wet, and his whole face was covered in tears. And he couldn't do a damn thing to wipe them away because Jason still had him pinned to the ground.

Dick just laid there, sobbing unabashedly, and it was the most pathetic thing Jason had ever seen. But he couldn't look away, couldn't move, and definitely couldn't leave him there.

So, he grabbed Dick by the front of his shirt and started saying, "Shh, Dick, that's enough. Stop, okay? Just stop, Dick, please stop."

And Dick just wouldn't, and then Jason was crying and choking back a sob. When it eventually broke free from his chest Dick's eyes went as wide as dinner plates. But even then, he didn't stop crying. Hell, he was practically whimpering now. So, Jason did the only thing he could think to do, hands still firmly planted in the front of Dick's suit.

He kissed him, and there wasn't a thing Dick could do about it.

His arms squirmed under Jason's legs but that only made Jason kiss him harder and force his tongue between Dick's teeth. He had both of his hands on Dick's jaw now, tilting his head up so his mouth met Jason's more easily. He thought Dick's mouth was moving and joining in, but he was so intent on fucking climbing down Dick's throat that he couldn't really tell.

This? This was why Jason didn't kiss. It was too much – for anybody. This was the way he wanted to kiss Dick every day for the rest of his life. Neither of them was even hard but it was more intense than any sex Jason had ever had. 

Finally, he had to stop and come up for air, but he still pressed his forehead firmly against Dick's. His older counterpart was panting.

Breathlessly, Dick said, "Don't stop." 

Jason searched Dick's eyes for a long moment, seeing the pure, unfiltered desperation there. When he set Dick free a moment later, it was so he could stand up, compose himself and offer a hand out to Dick.

His fellow ex-Robin took it and then began to straighten his suit. When he looked up from where he was brushing off his pants he met Jason's eyes, all that desperation still laid bare across his features. 

"I don't know what I'll do if we never do that again," Dick croaked.

Jason thought of Superman – of Clark and Bruce in the next room. He thought of all the strength it took to be together the way they were with the job they had. And he thought of all the terror and uncertainty he'd seen in Bruce and Clark's eyes over the last few days.

That last part, that was what Dick was really asking him to do. Not just the relationship part, but the _family_ part. The part where Jason would actually have to stick around and maybe watch some of these people die. 

But, he figured, they'd stuck it out and watched him die, so maybe he owed them the same in return. 

"Me neither," Jason finally breathed, and then his lips where on Dick's again. 

This time he was soft, and gentle, just barely brushing his lips over the other man's. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he definitely took a moment to nuzzle his nose against Dick's face, and there was that fucking whimpering sound again. He took Dick's hands in his own and squeezed them, the same reassuring gesture he'd given Clark and Bruce earlier. 

"We'll do that again," Jason promised, "but right now the family needs us."


	10. The Adventures of Red Hood and Arsenal, Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Mentions/descriptions of poverty, graphic depiction of sex, graphic depiction of animal cruelty, mention of death (animal and human), violence (canon-typical)

###  Chapter 9.5: The Adventures of Red Robin and Arsenal, Pt 1 

Gotham’s Docks were a city all their own. For miles, stretched out along the edge of Gotham Harbour, a miniature metallic skyline rose up from the waves in the form of shipping containers (piled precariously high) and the imposing hulls of a dozen cargo freighters. They blasted smoke from the great chimneys that rose from their engine rooms in the lower decks, leaving port just in time to be replaced by another identical ship.

Gotham city’s current Mayor had been vying to expand The Docks for the last year or so, and it seemed the legislation was finally going to pass. But anyone who knew anything about Gotham knew that the docks were a front for the slimiest of criminal enterprises. Gotham’s import and export businesses were down forty-six and fifty-seven percent, respectively… Unless you considered human trafficking and arms dealing an import-export business.

That was part of what had driven Red Robin here tonight.

The latest in Gothamite gangster gossip had told him that the Mayor had just acquired a rather rare albino tiger for the villa he kept along the Bristol coast. Since Bristol was only thirty miles or so from Wayne Manor, Tim had made it his business to take a road trip and see for himself.

Tim had taken one of Bruce’s many _Aston Martin_ convertibles, swiping the keys from the cabinet full of hooks that Alfred kept locked tight, but that everyone in the house knew how to break into. It was a small, zippy yellow thing that no one every really drove, but that Tim had a soft spot for. The retractable roof always gave Tim a little jolt of electric, nerdy pleasure when he used it. And besides, it was the middle of summer and Gotham’s northern shores got hot this time of year.

He had decided to use his Tim Drake-Wayne persona as cover: just a leisurely drive up the east coast in his sports car. He’d parked at one of the coastline’s many look-outs that served as pit stops for tourists (not that there were many these days). Most of them were situated off the main road, connected up to the highway by secluded, narrow, winding roads.

From there, hidden from the prying eyes of anyone on the main road, Tim had suited up and gone cliff-jumping; soaring low to the water using his glider and keeping himself in line with the cliffs. Using them for cover, he’d clambered along them and snuck right onto the Mayor’s back patio, which jutted out from the cliff-face like a balcony.

Built into the ostentatious white marble patio was a crisp blue pool – an absurd and death-defying feature, even for a man as arrogant as the Mayor of Gotham.

Wide, nine-foot-high sliding glass doors, trimmed with a dark wood, gave way to the open-plan living room of the Mayor’s villa. It featured a kitchen that seemed more of a place to serve drinks than to eat, and a living room recessed into the floor like something from a seventies house. But instead of orange rugs and yellow furniture, the room was draped in shades of white and warm grey. The plush leather couch was an off-white, and the floor was a bleached-white shag carpet, matching the marble exterior of the house.

Tim had felt out of place in his red and green Robin suit, like a wine stain on the plush carpeting. He had noted that Wayne Manor never felt like this. Its aged, dark hallways and woody, earthy tones always felt like a home. Tim thought about Thomas Wayne, the warm and inviting doctor he’d never had the pleasure of meeting. Tim decided that Doctor Wayne would have turned his nose up at this place.

Doing the same as his adoptive grandfather would have, Tim set about taking his photographs – of the inadequate space for an animal, the harsh metal cage in the one dark corner of the room, and the chains that had been bolted to the wall. He was so wrapped up in his disgust that he’d almost missed the elephant in the room. Or rather, the tiger.

The albino cat lay sleeping – sedated, probably – on the living room rug. His vibrant white fur camouflaged him perfectly against the colours of the room, and Tim wondered what the Mayor’s obsession with the colour white was. _Maybe it helps him forget all the unwashed masses he’s leaving to die in Gotham’s dark alleys_ , Tim thought grimly.

He had photographed the tiger and then wandered over to pet the great beast. He’d stirred somewhat, but hadn’t opened his eyes, and Tim had muttered a silent promise to come back for him. Unfortunately, he couldn’t yet liberate his furry feline friend, because the Mayor would have just paid the exotic animal fine and kept the poor beast. No, Tim had to get the smugglers behind this arrested and make sure they rolled on the Mayor.

A few minutes of meticulous combing later, and Tim was ready to leave. He’d hacked into the laptop computer in the Mayor’s office and found an encrypted email conversation (which he’d easily cracked) between the Mayor and the smugglers. Their meeting point for the exchange had been the docks, so that was where Tim was headed next.

The part of the docks that lay right by the water’s edge was like a microcosm of The Narrows. Everything here was made of spongey wood that had been soaking up the salt of the sea for the last hundred years. Here, much like The Narrows itself, crime reigned.

Weary mothers of dead children threw buckets of dirty water from the windows of two-storey walk-ups that had been intended as hostels for sailors in the nineteen-hundreds, but now stood as a stark reminder of Gotham’s overcrowding. Everything south of the Narrows, where the Gotham River cut through the city like a line in the sand, grew steadily more derelict with each passing year. First it had been five people in a two-bedroom apartment, then six, now almost ten. It made Tim’s blood boil and his heart ache all at once.

He watched a lone homeless man rub his bare and bony hands over a weak bonfire in the middle of one of the walkways. It led to the back entrance of the central freight yard, which in turn led out onto the city streets. Here, the homeless didn’t even have old oil drums to contain their fires, they just lit their dry tinder on the docks themselves, hoping that the waterlogged wood was too wet to catch alight. It was a miracle the place hadn’t burned to the ground, though silently Tim wondered if that would have been a good outcome. It would drive off the criminals who skulked here, at least.

As Tim saw a shy little girl in a dirty dress, clutching her teddy in one hand and her mother in the other, he cursed himself for the thought. A fire here would kill some of Gotham’s most vulnerable residents, the ones who needed saving from things Tim couldn’t just punch: poverty, starvation, the inability to access healthcare.

As if on cue to make him feel useful again, the thugs Tim were waiting for emerged from a warehouse at the end of the street.

He’d been crouched on this rooftop for the last three hours, taking in the sights and smells of The Docks. A single man in the apartment below Tim’s feet was heating pea and ham soup in the microwave, while his next-door neighbour had heinously loud sex.

Occasionally soup man would bang on their shared wall, _Qui’t down ov’r ‘ere_ , before turning up his television set even louder to drown out the high-pitched squeals of _fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me_ and the much lower growls of _take it, you filthy slut, take it_ , followed by the sound of what could only be the man slapping the woman.

The first time Tim had heard the slapping sound he’d almost interfered, fearing for the woman’s safety, but as Tim began to climb down from his perch he’d heard a second slapping noise, followed by an ear-splitting cry of _hit me harderrrr_. Tim had felt a flush spread across his body and heard Dick’s voice in his ear, teasing him for being so _vanilla_.

Now Tim leapt off the rooftop, glad to be leaving earshot of the couple who didn’t seem to be able to stop having sex. From what Tim had discerned, neither of them had cum in over an hour, and Tim had listened as both of their grunts and groans became steadily more frustrated.

_Surely the point is to cum, right_? he thought to himself as he used his battle staff like a pole vault to leap between buildings.

He landed nimbly on his feet, dirt and concrete crunching beneath his heavily-armoured, knee-high emerald boots. It wasn’t that he was afraid of getting a mortal shin wound, he had just gotten fed up with the bruises that spread over his lower legs after a long night of close-quarters combat. Your shins are the strongest bones in your body, Tim knew, but that didn’t mean he had to try to break them while he was kicking some thug in the side of the head.

Tim held his breath as he snuck up beside the last smuggler, who was exiting the warehouse through a side door. He was less than a foot from the guy, pressed against the wall of the warehouse in a shadow cast by a lone floodlight that pointed out into the middle of the walkway out front.

The smuggler didn’t seem to notice him, too busy staring into his phone, and Tim grabbed the inside edge of the door as it swung shut behind the guy. Still holding his breath, Tim slinked through the crack in the door like a cat, his taut black cape slithering behind him.

Once inside, Tim had to suppress his gag reflex.

The only light in the warehouse was cast from the windows in the vaulted ceiling, but Tim could see the horror before him well enough. Rows upon rows of shelves with dozens of empty animal cages crammed onto each one. Some still had feathers, faeces and other debris lining the bottoms of the cages, and others still contained dead animals; some rotted carcasses, some only days old.

A rat scurried past on one of the shelves beside Tim’s ear and he flinched, redirecting the sudden jolt of nervous energy into a firm scowl that twisted his entire face. He stepped over discarded bags of seeds and other animal food, piles of rotting who-knew-what with flies buzzing about them. Amongst the sea of debris were a few discarded needles, probably with traces of various tranquilisers and sedatives in them. He had just bent to pick one up for analysis when he heard footsteps in front of him, coming from deeper in the warehouse.

Bagging the needle and tucking it into his utility belt, Tim unholstered his grappling gun and was crouching amongst the rafters in a matter of moments. He draped his cape purposefully around him and he could almost feel the way the shadows engulfed him. If someone knew where to look they might see the shining whites of his eyes narrowing into a glare.

Tim watched intently as the figure stepped into the light at the centre of the room, where the aisles of shelves stopped and gave way to an empty space, like trees giving way to a clearing. Here, a makeshift poker table had been set up atop a large wooden crate, and the floor here was littered with empty beer bottles instead of animal waste.

When Tim saw who the assailant was, he didn’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved. His scales glistened the same shade of green as Tim’s boots in the moonlight, though he was twice Tim’s size. On his chest, scales gave way to veiny green flesh, finishing in a head of dripping teeth and a spiky, bald scalp.

_At least he has the dignity to wear pants_ , Tim thought as he soared down from the rafters, landing directly in front of the villain. He’d fought this battle before and won, and he wasn’t about to let a half-animal harm, well, full-animals. (Tim would further analyse the irony of that later.)

“Croc,” Tim said curtly, baring his teeth.

They weren’t nearly as intimidating as Croc’s own teeth, but the expression conveyed his meaning well enough. It said, _I’m here to fight_ , and _I’m not scared of you_.

“Well, well,” Croc said smugly, his mouth curving into what might have passed for a grin, “A little bird out all on his own.”

Killer Croc crossed the floor towards Tim, an arrogance in his gait that put Tim on edge. He was used to Croc lunging at him, trying to rip his throat out, or at least being menacing. Instead, it seemed Killer Croc had decided he wanted to play with his food tonight.

Croc was toe-to-toe with him now, looming over Tim, and for a moment he really did feel like a bird in the maw of a crocodile. Croc said as much, lifting a clawed finger and placing it under Tim’s chin, tilting his jaw upwards until he was forced to stare into the supervillain’s slitted, yellow eyes. His claw dug into Tim’s skin, drawing a prick of blood.

“Whatever will we do with you?” Croc asked coolly, eyeing up Tim like his next meal.

Tim raised his staff then, using it to bat away Croc’s arm. Then he followed it up with a high, arcing blow that hit the scaly man right between his shoulder blades. Croc cried out, a little too loud, and Tim fell back, paranoid that the prehistoric man was alerting backup.

“Who else is here?” Tim demanded, knocking Croc’s feet out from under him with a deft sweep of his staff.

Tim raised his staff again, his boots now parallel to Croc’s head as he stood over the half-man. He brought it down hard and fast but jerked it to a stop before it hit Croc, who winced anyway. Tim wedged the staff into Croc’s enormous jaw, pressing the end down until it hit the back of his throat. Croc’s eyes widened in what could only be fear, and Tim took his opportunity to ask again.

“Who else is here?” he demanded, voice rising to a shout.

All he could smell was the stench of death in this place; a thousand dead, innocent animals. He thought of Damian and his various pets, blood boiling at the thought of his younger brother ever having to see this place. He wanted to raise his staff up and slam it back down, hard, again and again until it punctured the back of Croc’s head.

“That would be me,” a sly voice called from behind Tim.

He whipped around immediately, already analysing the voice. _Male_ , he catalogued to himself, _strong Star City accent, smug as all hell_.

The silhouette Tim saw in the dark looked a lot like Green Arrow, but the body proportions weren’t quite right. Still, how many residents of Star City walked around with a bow and quiver strapped to their back and had the muscular frame of a Cape.

_Oh_.

He stepped out from the shadows boots first. They matched Tim’s own boots; the patented superhero metal with its ergonomic design and flexible ankle and knee joints. Only, where Tim’s boots were a metallic green, his were a metallic red. Tucked into them emerged a pair of bright red leather pants, just a little _too_ tight, wrapping around a pair of lean, chiselled thighs. He didn’t wear a visible cup like most superheroes, but Tim spotted the bulge of one beneath his pants.

_Jeez, I hope that’s what that is_ , Tim thought to himself, feeling his body flush as red as the other man’s suit. He gulped.

Green Arrow’s former sidekick, once known as Speedy and now going by the alias _Arsenal,_ wore a sleeveless, cut-off version of the standard superhero tunic. Developed by WayneTech, Tim could list all its features, most notable of which was its flexibility and durability. The tunic would stop any blade and almost any bullet – save for a few armour-piercing rounds that LexCorp had been developing – but the experts still recommended you wear a metal breastplate of some kind to protect your most vital organs.

It seemed that Arsenal had taken that advice literally, opting for a breastplate that cut off around his midriff, just under his heart and lungs, not unlike a crop top. The tunic and breastplate both flared high around his neck, elongating his already narrow form. Tim suddenly realised why they’d called him ‘Speedy’ back in the day.

The finishing touches on Arsenal’s suit were a few of the more practical items a superhero might need. His quiver was strapped to his back with shoulder straps like a backpack, a distinct improvement over the way Green Arrow always slung his over one shoulder. His utility belt was the same shade of metallic red as everything else, with a small, tasteful gold belt buckle in the shape of an arrowhead. He also carried a thigh holster with a one-handed crossbow and a few miniature arrows, which were strapped to his thigh so tight the straps dug in a little. And, well, Tim might have spent a little too long eyeing the _thigh_ part.

His biceps were scratched with tacky, faded tattoos, the kind that you saw on guys who perpetually smelled of sweat and always let their stubble get to that prickly, painful place before they shaved it. The type of guy who didn’t care if you got beard rash when you kissed him, just so long as you _were_ kissing him.

Croc stirred behind Tim then, dragging him out of his entirely-inappropriate, not-at-all-mission-critical thoughts. The half-man got to his feet slowly, belabouring the point as if to garner sympathy with Arsenal.

It seemed to work, because Arsenal called out, “You alright there, big guy?”

Croc grumbled out something in the affirmative and trudged across the room to stand just behind Arsenal, flanking his right side. _Like a right-hand man_ , Tim thought, scowling.

“A washed-up ex-sidekick hanging with a supervillain?” Tim asked venomously, conjuring up his best sarcastic voice.

With a wince, he realised that the sarcastic voice he was doing was an imitation of Red Hood – of Jason – and of course Arsenal would know that.

“Colour me shocked,” Tim finished anyway.

But even as the venomous quip dropped from his mouth he retracted his staff, collapsing it in on itself and clipping the small tube it became onto his belt.

Arsenal’s face contorted, and he didn’t speak for a long moment. He’d seemed defensive for a second, then angry, then hurt. Now is face faded into indifference, like storm clouds moving in and looming over a previously clear sky.

“It’s not like that, Robin,” Arsenal eventually said quietly, in a tone that even Tim couldn’t read.

“It’s not?” Tim asked incredulously, keeping his guard up as he raised his arms and gestured around at the warehouse they were standing in. “What’s it like then?” he continued, his voice getting louder as he spied another row of corpses in cages. “What? Gee-Ay kicked you out of Central City so now you’ve decided to roost in the slums of Lower Gotham?”

Tim pivoted on his heel to face Killer Croc more fully now, staring down the gargantuan man.

“And you!” Tim spat. “You haven’t been seen around these parts since the last time I kicked your scaly ass.”

Tim brought his staff back out then, flicking the cylinder in his hand and relishing in the satisfying _clink-clink-clink_ it made as it cascaded into a one-point-five-metre-long weapon. He flicked it out from himself angrily, his feet automatically taking up a fighting stance.

“Tell me who you’re working for,” Tim boomed, consumed with the stench of death again, “or I’ll burn this whole operation to the ground with you in it.”

He levelled his gaze at Arsenal, daring his fellow sidekick to flinch. He didn’t think there was much use appealing to Croc’s fears or morality, but surely there was a little of the old Speedy left in Arsenal – the bright-faced, enthusiastic, crime-fighting kid that Dick Grayson still told stories about.

“We’re working a case,” Arsenal finally bit out, raising his hands and then dropping them to his sides with a shrug that turned into a defensive shoulder-roll.

Tim rolled his eyes in time with Arsenal rolling his shoulders, not buying a word of it.

“With Killer Croc?” Tim accused, forcing out a laugh that died a second after it hit his lips.

“If it was _Red Hood_ the outlaw standing here,” Arsenal said quietly, like all the fight had suddenly left him, “would you trust him?”

All the air left Tim’s lungs in an instant and he felt his next breath catch in his throat. His mind reeled at the mention of his brother – of Arsenal’s _friend_ – and he didn’t know what to make of it. If any members of Dick’s Junior League had asked him for this kind of trust, if any actual League member had asked, he would have said yes in an instant.

Tim eyed Killer Croc up and down, forcing his eyes to look past Arsenal for a moment and survey the other man in the room. Tim knew Croc had been working for Task Force X, so he couldn’t be all bad, but he’d also tried to kill Tim not so many years ago. Hell, the guy’s name was _Killer_ Croc. But then again, Red Hood had been pegged as a killer too, and Tim knew that wasn’t true.

“He vouched for you,” Tim eventually admitted, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

It was a bad habit he’d never been able to kick despite all his training; an anxiety response that he’d had since childhood. He put his staff away again, sighing as he resigned himself to the fact that it was for good this time. Or, at least until the next criminal showed up.

“But he didn’t vouch for Croc.”

Arsenal pinched the bridge of his nose then, before closing the distance between himself and Tim.

Just as Tim had expected, Arsenal smelled of sweat. His tattoos were oddly charming up close, and Tim found himself strangely enamoured with the way his red armpit hair stuck out under his sinewy biceps. He’d never seen a superhero with visible pit hair, he thought dumbly.

Arsenal’s wavy orange hair curtained his face as he peered down at Tim, who felt smaller now than he had as Croc loomed over him. Arsenal’s eyes were shielded fairly well by his domino mask – which mirrored Tim’s own – but Tim could see a hint of something there that wasn’t nearly as intimidating as Arsenal’s body language.

“Trust me, Rob,” Arsenal breathed, right into Tim’s face.

His breath was hot on Tim’s face, and Tim felt it over his lips, breezy and warm. He smelled mustier now, like Tim thought all the best men smelled, and for a moment it drowned out every other smell in the warehouse. There in the moonlight, Tim saw a hint of recognition flicker across Arsenal’s pale green eyes.

Maybe Arsenal was looking at him and seeing Dick or Jason in the red and green, or maybe the archer was seeing himself in the domino mask and sidekick attire. Tim couldn’t be sure, but he was sure that he wanted to drink in the scent of Arsenal’s breath and pit-sweat until the world ended around them.

In that moment it was just the two of them; two former sidekicks with matching boots and masks. Their costumes – their skins – made of the same polycarbonate Kevlar meshes. Arsenal’s hand reached out, floating forward like it was accidental, just close enough to brush – no, _buzz_ – against Tim’s skin. It was a bigger jolt than the _Aston Martin_ ever gave him. Bigger than the Batplane, bigger than soaring through the crisp Gotham night for the first time.

“You ladies finished?” came the guttural snarl of Killer Croc, the sheer alien-ness of his voice enough to shatter Tim’s whole world.

And just like that, the moment was gone.


	11. Red Robin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Feelings of grief, helplessness, mentions of death, violence (canon-typical)

###  Chapter 10: Red Robin 

An hour passed, during which no one in the Batcave nor in Wayne Manor seemed to breathe.

Jason had paced back and forth between the med-bay and the Cave's central computer, his eyes drifting absent-mindedly over the dozen or so different screens Tim had switched on and was monitoring.

On the monitors, Gotham was still going through the motions without them. But it seemed, for the moment at least, that the trail on Damian's case had gone cold, so the whole family was awaiting a fresh lead with bated breath.

Tim sat completely still in his chair, his back rigid, and Jason thought of the boy's eldest counterpart and their mutual mentor down the hall. Both Dick and Bruce also sat with their shoulders squared and their hands motionless in their laps. Even the rise and fall of their chests didn't seem perceptible to the human eye, so Jason had taken to reminding himself that if either of their hearts stopped beating, Superman would notice.

The Kryptonian superhero was pretty lifeless too, hovering just slightly above the ground -- the only indication of the tension coursing through his body -- as he kept vigil in the doorway of Damian's room.

He kept his eyes firmly on Bruce but was careful not to venture too close or appear too sympathetic. Jason was playing the same game with Dick and it tore out his heart to do it; he couldn't even begin to imagine how Bruce was feeling. 

As Jason paced he ran across Superman occasionally, who seemed to float between rooms like a ghost that had been doomed to inhabit a single residence for the rest of his life. When he locked gazes with Jason his face was even as pale as a ghost's.

They never spoke a word, but what they said with their eyes was enough. It was unnerving to see the world's strongest and most beloved superhero reduced to this; haunting the halls of the Batcave as death -- Damian's death -- seemed to loom ever nearer.

It hung in the air like frost, and it felt like tiny icicles were making a home in Jason's lungs. 

It was so hard to breathe, but Jason knew he had to weather this ice storm for everyone around him.

He hadn't known Damian -- not really -- but the dark-haired, half-Arab, half-Gothamite boy had grown up in this house. He'd been raised in Dick and Jason's shadows, and by Tim's side. Which was exactly why Jason kept finding himself in the middle of the Cave's atrium, just behind Tim, swaying a little on his feet as he watched the back of his replacement's head. 

Tim was a detective in the truest sense -- the only Robin who had ever really embodied that title. Sure, Jason and Dick had good instincts and they were trained in the latest forensic science, but Tim. Well, Tim could see the matrix. It was something behind the boy's eyes that Jason had previously only been accustomed to seeing in Bruce. He'd grown up thinking it was something uniquely _Batman_. But it was there in Tim, too.

Which was why it was so surprising -- and terrifying -- that it took so long for Tim to realise he was being watched tonight.

When he finally did he sounded tired, resigned, like Jason had seen Batman be once or twice before. It was like Tim was a ship that had turned its sensors and shields off and was going to let any old asteroid or encroaching hostile ram itself into his hull.

The last time Jason had seen this he'd been watching Bruce via surveillance camera from the Cave -- the old Cave, the one that this one was built on the ruins of.

The camera had been grainy by today's standards. Black-and-white picture only with no audio. Just a cheap rooftop surveillance cam that Jason had hacked into, so he was able to keep an eye on Bruce while he was out on patrol.

Batman had stood there, ten-stories up, his cape whipping violently in the wind as he peered over the edge. His cowl-ed head had been tipped downwards, looking more at his feet than at the city, and he'd just stood there. For minutes or hours, Jason hadn't really been sure.

Superman had died just the day before and Bruce had left in a frenzy, his cape getting tangled around his body as he turned towards the batmobile. Jason had been suited up to join him, but Bruce had yelled -- no screamed -- at him. _I will not have you on the streets tonight_ , he'd shrieked, and it had rattled Jason enough to make him compliant.

So, Jason had sat, frantically clicking through every traffic camera in Gotham, trying to track the batmobile and its lone occupant through the dimly lit streets. Technology had never been his strongpoint, but he'd managed to keep an eye on Bruce for the first few hours of the night, which was made much easier by all the time he'd spent perched on this one rooftop in Park Row.

Jason had spotted the assailant before Bruce had and he'd considered radioing to warn the Batman. But the large assailant had been clumsy and heavy-footed, so Jason had assumed Batman had already noticed he was there.

Then the guy had gotten closer, and closer, until he'd been all-but breathing down Bruce's neck.

When he swung, Batman didn't block or dodge.

He took one enormous fist -- almost the size of his head -- to the face, then another. Then another.

He let his head swing violently from side-to-side, not making any attempt to redirect the momentum of the blows.

Something dark squirted from Batman's mouth with the next punch and his legs shook. Batman wasn't even in a defensive stance, he was just standing there like a regular man.

In black-and-white, alongside this hulking giant's silhouette, Batman had looked tiny; like a real bat next to an enraged gorilla.

Thinking back on it now, Jason was reminded of the men who had attacked Damian. Talia and Bruce's son had seemed so small against the towering walls of the alley, even after Jason had dispatched the thugs who'd jumped him. It seemed so wrong somehow, even though the boy was only twelve.

Jason had always felt so strong in the red and green -- invincible, even. When you carried the Bat's name -- when you wore a cape in the city of Gotham -- you were untouchable. _Then again_ , Jason thought, _I died in those colours_.

Finally, Bruce had fought back, like something had snapped him out of a trance. He'd unhinged his jaw in what Jason had assumed was an unholy scream, and he'd grabbed his assailant by the shirtfront and dragged him over the roof's edge like he was a bag of garbage, not a three-hundred-pound mass of muscle.

Jason had turned the monitors off after that, his finger shaking over the button, and he and Bruce had never spoken of it.

He'd always wondered if the fall had killed the man, but truth be told even before his death Jason hadn't been as morally opposed to killing as perhaps he should have been. He thought of Superman in the other room now, a man who had dedicated himself to saving lives -- every life -- and looked down at his feet, face contorting into a grimace.

_Grief_ , he thought. It was grief that forced this darkness down the throats of good men like Bruce and Tim. A taste Jason was intimately familiar with, but not one that should have been allowed to taint the palates of rest of the family.

"Look, Jason," Tim began.

His face barely moved from the screens as he addressed his predecessor.

His words were as strong as they ever were, but his tone said _I'm so tired_.

"I know seeing me in this uniform makes you uncomfortable."

The boy sighed like a man four times his age.

"But do you really think now is the time to have this argument?"

Jason, so used to the Bat family assuming the worst in him at this point, ignored the question entirely. Instead, he made a conscious effort to soften his Lower Gotham accent -- the only one of the four Robins to have a voice so distinctly reminiscent of Gotham's criminal element.

He asked, "How are you holding up, kid?"

For a single moment he thought he'd broken his successor, and Jason felt as uncomfortable as Tim looked. The younger man's shoulders suddenly slumped, and Jason could see his hands shaking on the arms of his chair. _Bruce's chair_ , Jason thought numbly, crossing the distance between them to come and stand by Tim's side.

He'd thought he was going to put a reassuring hand on Tim’s shoulder, maybe crouch down and give him one of his notoriously crummy heart-to-hearts. But by the time Jason got there it was like Tim had reset. His face was expressionless now, devoid of emotion, and his lips were pressed into a hard line. 

With a tension in his voice that Jason wouldn't have picked up on if he hadn't known Bruce for so many years, Tim said, "I'm fine." 

To keep him from receding back into the batcomputer Jason darted between Tim and the centre console, resting on the edge of it and leaning over Tim to better block his view. Jason knew it would look like an intimidation tactic -- Tim was leaner that Jason was, more like Dick in that way, and he was shorter, too -- but if he had to force his replacement to open up to him, he would.

_Who else is going to do it?_ he asked himself, thinking of Bruce's still-broken face down the hall in Damian's room. 

"He's your brother," Jason said sternly, already feeling shitty for doing what Bruce would have done in this situation. 

Trying to elicit an emotional reaction was an effective tactic, but it was also a cruel one. Jason didn't want to be the bad guy -- not anymore, at least -- but he also figured Tim already saw him as one.

"Dick and I," Jason continued. 

He pushed past his discomfort at those words, even as a tiny part of his brain finished his sentence for him: _Dick and I are fucking, Dick and I are dating_. 

"We'd already left the nest by the time Damian came ‘round," he said instead, still stern; still sounding like Batman. 

He took a deep breath, deciding to give Tim a bit of compromise by softening his tone but meeting the younger man's eyes with a hefty gaze.

Tim, to his credit, gave nothing away; his lips remained pursed and his eyes were glassy and frigid.

Jason didn't know the kid well enough to break down his defenses, so for a long moment he just maintained his stare.

And then, just like glass, Tim cracked.

"He's my only brother," he suddenly blurted.

His pale blue eyes went from glassy to wet in an instant.

"You don't get it," he spat.

The sadness in his gaze was more horrible than any menacing look that had ever been sent Jason's way.

"Bruce wasn't in the League when you were around -- not really."

Tim's lip trembled for a second then, like he wasn't sure if he should continue or not. Jason couldn't tell if it was because he felt like he was criticising his mentor, or because he was giving Jason ammunition in what (to Tim at least) seemed to be a never-ending war between Red Hood and Batman. But the floodgates had been held shut for too long apparently, because when Tim spoke next it seemed like he couldn't have shut himself up if he'd tried. 

"He's not here half the time anymore!" Tim shouted, his voice cracking on the word 'here'. 

It made Jason realise how much of a sticking point this had been for the family of late. It seemed in the wake of so many international and intergalactic conflicts, Gotham was getting left in the dust. 

"Sometimes Alfred's barely here," Tim continued.

And, shit, it really was a different world. Alfred had been the only constant this place had had while Jason was growing up here. 

And Jason finally realised that was the point: it was a different world here now, and Tim and Damian had been trying to navigate these labyrinthine halls and vast cave systems all on their own. Tonight, Tim didn't even have his brother to lean on.

Jason felt his hands tighten around the edge of the computer console he was leaning on and he gritted his teeth.

_How did they let it get like this_? 

"Sometimes Damian is the only person I talk to for weeks," Tim finished, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "And you…"

Tim's eyes narrowed, and he bared his teeth like a growling dog.

"You didn't even give Dick a real answer when I practically had to beg him to talk to you."

Tim stood up then, toe-to-toe with Jason who had at least a foot on him and didn't budge an inch.

But Tim didn't back down.

Like a madman, Jason nearly grinned at his younger counterpart's bravery. He was right, after all, Jason hadn't exactly said yes. He'd made his decision -- he'd saved a Robin's ass and had a heart-to-heart with Superman for Christ's sake -- but none of the family could possibly have known that. They still saw him as the black sheep (well, the red sheep) who carried guns around and shot anyone he saw fit to.

Even though Superman had torn his helmet apart, they were still seeing Red Hood.

Jason couldn't exactly blame them. 

"I thought considering you two were…" Tim paused.

The cogs behinds his eyes turned like he was struggling to find the right word.

Jason's face went white and he finally budged, leaning back further against the batcomputer to get as far away from Tim as he could in the tiny space they were sharing.

But of course, he should have figured Tim would have been the one to figure it out -- 'master detective' and all that. Still, he wasn't sure whether it was Tim knowing that had made him recoil, or just the rotting stench of his guilt finally catching up to him.

"I thought Dick would have been enough to make you stay." 

Jason snorted, eyes rolling back into his head.

It was a cruel response, he knew, especially given that Tim was talking about the man who'd just an hour earlier confessed his love to him. But Tim was wrong about Jason's motivations -- like most of the Bat family had been for years -- and it brought back a little flash of Red Hood. 

"Dick doesn't even _live_ here, let alone work here," Jason said flippantly.

He eyed the med-bay entrance guiltily, even as his voice rose and he felt himself becoming more resolute.

"A cape who calls Blüdhaven home and spends all his time doing League missions isn't going to be what makes me stay in Gotham," he hissed. 

Because frankly? He was frustrated at Dick -- and Bruce, and everyone else -- who'd allowed this to happen to their home. To _Jason's_ home. 

"My mom is buried here," he said out of nowhere.

His nostrils flared and a little more Red seeped into his cheeks.

It wasn't entirely true, not in the factual sense. His mother was buried in an unmarked grave somewhere in the vast deserts of Qurac. But Leslie Thompkins was here. Ma Gunn was here. Everyone Jason had ever loved except for Roy and Kori were within Gotham's city limits.

Jason blinked and suddenly he was looking at Tim again, not at the faces of his family. But then he realised, Tim _was_ family. Whether Jason had been around or not -- regardless of how well they knew each other -- they were bound together in red and green.

"I'm staying for my family," Jason finally said, no longer shouting.

He swallowed hard then because he realised Tim was _shaking_. Not just a little either, his younger brother was shaking like he was losing his mind, and boy did Jason know what that felt like.

So, he dragged Tim in for a rough and entirely unfamiliar hug, just trying to steady the kid. Jason had lost control like this on his own -- lost and sad and grieving -- so many times before, and he would have taken a hug in those moments from just about anyone.

"He's not your only brother," Jason said.

He put one hand in Tim's hair before he really considered the gravity of what he was saying.

"Shh," he breathed when Tim continued to shudder in his arms and showed no signs of stilling, "You don't have to do this alone, baby bird," he cooed, using his other hand on Tim's back to push them closer into a real hug.

Finally, Tim returned it, wrapping his arms around Jason's waist so tight it made breathing a little difficult. It was the way kids held onto him when he was rescuing them from danger; the type of grip you used when you were too scared to care what anyone thought of you.

"Jay," Tim croaked, and Jason was flooded with memories of every time Dick had ever called him that, "I don't want him to die."


	12. Damian Wayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Swearing, mention of death, description of physical injuries

###  Chapter 11: Damian Wayne 

With Tim's scared face and shaking form still haunting him, Jason stalked down the hall of the med-bay with a renewed sense of purpose. He'd spent hours feeling caged and helpless tonight; there were no bad guys to fight, no wars to stop or planets to save. He'd thought the only thing there was to do was wait around. But now he knew his family had other problems; problems Bruce had been notoriously bad at tending to.

He found Superman still hovering in the doorway of Damian's room and shot him a steely look before brushing past him.

His plan had been to stand over Dick and demand that he goes and put Tim to bed -- and while he was at it himself, too. But the moment he was in that room it was like all the fight went out of him.

The bed was twice Damian's size and his skin -- what little of it wasn't covered in scrapes and bruises -- was as pale as the white pillow he rested his head on. He was connected to innumerable machines; a breathing tube, an IV and a catheter were among them.

It was unnerving, seeing the same head of cropped-short black hair -- the same cut Alfred had given to him at the kitchen table -- lay limp and lifeless under the house he'd grown up in; the house that they'd both grown up in.

Jason stood at the end of Damian's bed for a long time, just watching the labored rise and fall of his chest, hoping the kid was dreaming of something less grim than this.

He was thinking about how to get Dick out of the room without being as harsh as he'd first planned to be. Maybe he'd ask Dick to talk to him outside, explain how Tim was struggling, and Dick would be compliant. Or maybe Jason would just kiss him gently and ask, _For me? Please_? 

Before he could decide, though, Damian -- still unconscious -- spoke. 

"Baba," he murmured, his voice raspy and dry. 

His eyes darted around under their lids but didn't open, though his fingers twitched a little in Bruce's hands. Bruce was saying something comforting under his breath and squeezing Damian's hand tighter when Jason realised no one else in the room had understood what Damian had said.

"It's Arabic," Jason said quietly, and every head in the room snapped to look at him. "He's saying 'dad'."

"When did you learn Arabic?" Dick asked, his eyes narrowing as he scoured Jason's face. 

Jason looked down at Dick's hand, still firmly in Bruce's, and back up at his mentor's face. He was surprised to find that Bruce wasn't also looking at him with accusation in his eyes. Instead, his eyes were full of sympathy. Bruce, even in his almost delusional grief, had still pieced it together. 

"I was resurrected in a Lazarus Pit, remember?" Jason said coldly, holding Bruce's gaze even as his mentor – his father – twisted with discomfort. "Talia spent months training me in 'Eth Alth'eban," he continued, wincing as he spoke of Damian's now deceased mother. "I mean what was I gonna do?" he joked, trying half-heartedly to lighten the mood, "Speak English the whole time? I'm an asshole, but I'm not _that_ much of an asshole." 

To Jason's immense shock, that earned him a watery smile from Bruce. It was gone as soon as it had come, but Jason doubted he'd ever forget it. Surely something in their relationship had been mended if Bruce could smile at him at a time as gut-wrenching as this one. 

"She used to spend a lot of time in the infirmary," Jason reminisced, just to distract him from Dick's mistrusting eyes boring into him. "All the nurses used to pray over the sick, but there were so many that they ended up saying their prayers too fast, and even native speakers couldn't understand what the hell they were saying."

All Jason could see in Damian now was Talia. It was her black hair, not Bruce's. Her almond-shaped eyes, her sharp jaw and- _her sword_ , Jason realised, a low _huff_ of breath escaping his lips as he realised why the blade in his hands last night had been so familiar. Jason hadn't seen that sword since before he'd died, and by the time Talia had resurrected him in 'Eth Alth'eban she'd already passed it on to Damian. 

Jason was hit with a wave of something like nostalgia, but distinctly nauseating, as he recalled the first night he'd met Damian's mom.

She'd been so young back then; all flirtation and misdirected aggression and arrogance. Looking back on it now, Jason couldn't believe she'd dared to face an Untitled on her own. _If I hadn't been there_ …

Jason looked down at Damian's unconscious form and found he didn't need to finish his sentence. 

"Talia didn't pray," Jason said instead, because the way Talia had dealt with the sick and dying had taught Jason everything he'd needed to know about death -- well, everything his own death hadn't already taught him. "She used to sit with the men -- her men -- and sing to them." 

"You really trained with the League of Assassins?" Dick asked suddenly, dragging Jason out of his reverie. 

Bruce turned to look at Dick as well, and Jason was once again taken aback by his father's behaviour. Bruce glared at his eldest protégé and slipped his hand from Dick's. Dick didn't notice though; he was too busy interrogating Jason. 

"I did," Jason said honestly, not breaking Dick's gaze. "I'm not proud of it," he added, when his answer didn't seem to satisfy his older counterpart, "but I'm not ashamed either."

Jason waited a beat for Dick's next shrill question, but it didn't come. Jason remembered what he'd come into the room to say.

"Tim's losing it," he stated, eyeing Dick for his reaction.

 Dick seemed to quash a flinch, and Jason tensed his shoulders before continuing.

"I tried to console him," he admitted, figuring that the truth was the only thing Dick might be convinced by, "but I think he needs a familiar face right now."

He looked pointedly at Dick, as if to say _that's where you come in_ , but Dick didn't seem to get the message.

With a heavy sigh, Jason resigned himself to making it an order. He knew it would mean Dick would yell at him -- either now or later -- but what choice did he have? Jason was exhausted, and the more honest he was being, the more he was realising how close he was to breaking. And when it came down to it, he had to choose between keeping Tim safe -- shaking, voice-wavering, watery-eyed Tim -- or keeping Dick in his good books.

"Dick, just take him to bed, alright?"

Jason sighed again.

"You both need to sleep so you can take the next shift in here," he added, as though his half-assed excuses would be at all convincing.

Dick got to his feet then, face twisted into a scowl that was so far from everything else Jason had seen on the older man's face tonight. It startled him more than he cared to admit, and Jason felt his heart ache dully and twist in his chest.

"Fine," was all Dick said, voice like ice, before he stalked out of the room.

As soon as he was gone Jason was crossing the floor and dragging Superman into the room properly.

He'd almost forgotten the Kryptonian was even there, and Jason supposed that had been his intention. It was a family matter, after all. But if Clark really loved Bruce as much as he'd said, then he was family now too. Even if that meant being privy to every heart-wrenching, stomach-dropping second of tension.

Jason shut the door behind Superman, and this time he was thankful he didn't have to guide the Kryptonian over to his partner's side. Instead, Superman took Dick's chair with a relieved look, and it was Bruce who joined their hands.

Jason let out a long breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding in. He felt like he needed to do some breathing exercises or something. Then his gaze came back to rest on Damian and he was slapped in the face by the realisation that there was no time for that. Not yet.

"Sometimes," he said, burying his hands in his pockets and allowing himself one more moment of levity before he went back to doing his duty, "I think Bruce Wayne has to make uglier choices than Batman."

With that horrific thought lingering in the air, Jason crossed the room, not daring to look at Clark and definitely not at Bruce.

It was an unkind thing to say, but it was the truth. Bruce had to do things to keep this family together that felt like torture; both for him and for everyone else around him. He'd had to sacrifice anything that resembled a normal relationship with Clark, and tonight Jason felt like he was looking through a window into that world when he spoke to Dick.

He climbed lithely up onto Damian's bed, perching himself on the edge without disturbing Damian's body. He kept one foot on the vacant chair that Alfred had left behind earlier.

Now he had his back to Bruce and Clark, with Damian between them, and he felt a tiny amount of the pressure recede from his body; like letting a balloon go for a fraction of a second before closing it again. 

Jason pressed his palm against Damian's forehead, like he'd seen Talia do for so many injured members of the LOA over the years. He brushed Damian's coarse, black hair off his forehead with his thumb and took Damian's free hand in his. 

For a long time, he just sang. His voice was low and hoarse, in stark contrast with the memories he had of Talia's buttery feminine lilt.

He'd joked back then that they could have been a duo, since Jason played guitar and she had the voice of an angel. She'd smiled at him once and told him she'd like that, but somehow, they never got to play a song together. Life, their jobs, and death, always got in the way somehow. And then she'd been gone.

He thought he was singing the words right, but he couldn't really be sure. All the songs Talia knew were in a long-dead dialect of Arabic that she'd learned from reading the walls of the caves deep beneath 'Eth Alth'eban. She'd been able to translate some of them roughly, and the ones Jason heard enough to learn were the ones that had been used in ancient healing rituals.

Talia al Ghul had put her faith -- and the fate of her men -- in the hands of magic, so tonight Jason did as well.

Would it honour her memory? Jason didn't know. But when he finished the song he found himself telling Bruce the truth -- the whole truth -- for the first time in their long and scarred relationship.

"I met Talia before I met you," Jason began, his hand still resting firmly on Damian's cool skin, "in an alley just off Park Row."

It felt like an admission of guilt. That Jason had met Bruce's future lover before Bruce had met either of them, and just around the corner from where Bruce's own parents had died, seemed… wrong somehow. A cursed cosmic coincidence, though Talia would have called it fate.

"Seems like I always end up having a heart-to-heart with the people you’re sleeping with, eh Bruce?" he joked, then immediately bit his lip at the sound of himself saying _Bruce_.

His father's name sounded so unkind coming from his mouth now, and Jason wondered if it felt like sandpaper on Bruce's skin. The thought made him dip his head in shame, but the moment he did he spied a familiar scar on the left side of Damian's neck.

It was faded -- more faded than Jason's own matching scar was -- and Jason's stomach flipped as he wondered how young Damian had been when it was given to him. 

"Does he talk about this one?" Jason asked softly, turning his head to face Bruce as his hand absently moved off Damian's forehead. 

He traced the scar on Damian's skin with his finger, already knowing the answer was 'no'. Jason didn't talk about his either, though his hadn't been as symbolic as Damian's must have been. 

"It's the only one he won't talk about," Bruce answered, with a tinge of something in his voice that Jason couldn't identify.

It almost sounded like Bruce was hoping Jason had the answer. Which, luckily, he did. 

"It's part of the initiation ritual of the League of Assassins," Jason explained, letting go of Damian and using both hands to wrestle the inner lining of his suit down from around his neck.

As he revealed his own identical curved scar he turned to look at Bruce and Clark, who watched him with careful eyes. Neither of them seemed to know what to make of what he was saying, but neither of them seemed to be judging him either.

"They cleanse the dagger in one of the Lazarus Pits and fuse its water with our blood," he said solemnly.

He let go of his suit and let it slide back over his neck, concealing the scar once more.

"It's supposed to unite us together and make us _strong_."

Jason turned his nose up at the word 'strong', hearing it echoed in the voices of Talia, Bronze Tiger, Lady Shiva.

"It's bullshit though," Jason explained, "There isn't enough energy in a few drops of water from a Lazarus Pit to bestow any of its restorative power."

He took a deep breath, visibly shuddering as thoughts of his own resurrection filled his head. The cold water rushing over him, his eyes opening and stinging. Sensations washed over him like the water from the Pit itself. Jason suddenly felt on the brink of tears.

"If you were submerged in it though," he said before he could stop himself, "If it could fill your lungs and your stomach and engulf you…"

Jason gazed down at Damian again, unable to live in his own memories for a second longer. But that was when one last moment came to him, barrelling into his head like a truck. As realisation dawned on him he found himself confessing to Bruce and Clark before he could think through the ramifications.

"When she brought me back to life," he said, looking at Bruce, who winced again at the mere mention of Jason's resurrection, "Talia told me that she knew the water was safe."

Jason cocked his head in shame and now tears were rolling down his face.

"Barely four days ago Wonder Woman beat me to within an inch of my life," Jason was blubbering.

He heard the distinct sound of plastic caving under the force of Superman's grip.

"Clark it's okay," Jason stammered, eyes only for the Kryptonian now, "You couldn't have stopped her."

Jason wiped his tears away and tried not to look too hard at Bruce's wild eyes; as big as dinner plates and full of fear. He took Damian's hand in his and squeezed it, hard. Turning his body to face Bruce and Clark more fully now, so that his knee bumped against Damian's leg, he began to speak again.

"She definitely broke my jaw," Jason admitted, shooting Clark a sympathetic look, "my ribs, probably my right arm as well."

Jason sighed, and finished listing his symptoms.

"Concussion, multiple fractures including an eye socket, internal bleeding…" he trailed off, then laughed hollowly. "And four days later, I'm fine!"

Jason threw his hands in the air, making sure he didn't bump Damian as he did.

"The Lazarus Pit doesn't just resurrect the dead and restore youth," he told them, for the first time voicing a truth he'd known since his rebirth, "If you're submerged in it for any period it also gives you superhuman healing abilities."

He couldn't bear to look at Damian now, but he didn't want to look at Bruce or Clark either.

So, he tilted his head back, wiping away the last of his tears and staring bitterly at the ceiling. He cursed his own cowardice and his hubris. They were the things -- the only real things -- that had kept him from coming back to Gotham sooner.

_How did it get this bad_? he thought, preparing himself to tell Bruce and Clark the grim truth.

"Damian's initiation wasn't enough to give him any of the Lazarus Pit's powers," Jason admitted, voice wavering as he thought, _or any of its evil_. "But Talia told me once that her only son was christened in it."


	13. The Adventures of Nightwing and The Red Hood, Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Depiction of sex work (consensual), graphic descriptions of nudity and sex, mention of drugs, depictions of poverty, graphic depictions of violence and physical injuries, brief mention of sex offenders  
> This is a long one!

###  Chapter 11.5: The Adventures of Nightwing and The Red Hood, Pt 1 

Nestled snugly between the Midtown and Downtown isles of Gotham, Mercey Island rose like the splinters of a shipwreck from the murky depths of the Gotham River.

Reflected in the river’s brown-and-green surface, the lurching, crooked buildings on the outer perimeter of the island seemed to form a face. Rickety and wooden, they were faded to the colour of straw, their darkened windows like eyes. Between them, treacherous, winding alleys barely as broad as a man twisted and contorted into the shape of a great mouth. From a distance, you could be forgiven for being reminded of one of the island’s former residents: Jonathan Crane.

Occasionally, the flicker of a candle flame would briefly light up a sole window frame, a blip among hundreds of other darkened portals into the realm of the lost souls who dwelled there.

In his mind’s eye, Jason saw the cheap wax candles – mostly handmade – that Mercey Island’s residents used to light their way to and from the bathroom at night. He thought first of Alfred, who sometimes used an antique candelabra while he trudged around Wayne Manor in his homely two-piece pyjama set. Then he thought of Amadeus Arkham, hunched over scrolls of paper by candlelight. He was the man who had once drawn up the blueprints for the grandiose mansion at the centre of Mercey Island; the one this great slum had expanded out from. The island’s streets were like strands of a sprawling cobweb and the mansion was the spider itself, dwarfed now by its own creation.

Mercy Mansion, commissioned by cement tycoon Eric Mercey in the late nineteen-eighties, was built to be an exact mirror of the first Arkham Asylum. According to Gotham folklore, at the time Mercey had called Arkham the most exquisite piece of architecture in the world, and he’d often been heard lamenting about how Gotham’s most wretched citizens got to live in it, while he lived in a lowly _penthouse_ with his wife and children. As the story went, one day one of Mercey’s goons had suggested he simply build an Arkham for himself. And so, it had begun.

Now, almost forty years later, Mercey Island had taken on a new name. No longer was it the private island of a reclusive one-percent-er. No, instead Gotham’s other one-percent lived here now; the bottom one-percent.

Word on the street was Parole Officers refused to cross the bridges onto the island to chase you up about appointments, so instead they’d just fake the paperwork – fingers shaking at their cheap, sticky government desks – until your parole period was up. Occasionally your case would get forwarded on to the proper authorities, but none of them dared to step foot on the island either. Jason had even heard that the national sex offender registry wouldn’t track you out here.

He shuddered at the thought.

_“You know they say the Joker lived in that mansion for a while,” one of Red Hood’s informants had been telling him a few days earlier._

_The man was scrawny and always wearing a t-shirt that was two sizes too big. He was always jonesing for a fix of something too, though Jason didn’t dare ask what._

_It had been dark out, and they’d met on a footpath under one of the hulking bridges that led from Downtown Gotham’s Diamond District to Mercey Island (on the Downtown side of it, of course)._

_The salt spray of the Gotham River had been spitting up into the guy’s face, and he’d pulled his tattered wool beanie down further over his forehead with raggedy gloved hands. Jason had noted that the knuckles of his gloves were torn, and beneath them his skin was gnarled and crimson._

_“Before Jeremiah Arkham decided to make it the new Arkham Asylum,” the guy prattled on, his voice oscillating between nasally and the lazy drawl of a Lower Gothamite._

_“Coffee?” Jason asked absently, retrieving the two paper Starbucks cups he’d left perched on the back of his bike when he’d arrived._

_He’d driven the red, Japanese bike down the footpath and parked it by the water with no regard for the rules of the road. He knew if he saw anyone here they wouldn’t be the type to call the cops on him for a parking violation._

_Jason cringed at the sound of his own voice, repeated it back in his head._ Cawfee _, it said. Seemed like his informant wasn’t the only one under this bridge with roots in Lower Gotham._

_Maybe that was why Gotham City’s vagrants always trusted the Red Hood, Jason mused, as he handed the hot cappuccino over to his nameless mole. Jason clasped his own hot drink in his hands, feeling the warmth filter into his bones a little, even through his thick leather gloves. With a sigh that was part-satisfaction, part-resignation, he unclasped his helmet at the back and lifted it off with one hand._

_His informant jumped a foot or more in the air, one hand shooting up to his eyes as though he wasn’t supposed to see Jason’s face underneath._

_“Relax,” Jason drawled, dropping the bright red helmet onto the seat of his bike, “I got another one on under here.”_

_His fellow Lower Gothamite visibly relaxed as he caught sight of Jason’s domino mask, and after a moment he began to greedily swallow down the drink he always asked Jason to tip half a shaker of white sugar into. Jason followed suit. He was glad that his informant wasn’t a more perceptive man, because Jason’s drink wasn’t even really coffee, it was a hot chocolate. (Though he’d pull out his favourite knife and gut anybody who dared suggest the Red Hood drank anything but black, sugarless coffee.)_

_“You been fightin’ again?” Jason asked after a while._

_They both knew it wasn’t really a question, but Jason’s informant answered anyway, his eyes downcast in what might have been shame._

_“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, kicking the toe of one of his tattered boots against the footpath, “I know I ain’t supposed to, but it’s just so hard to make a livin’ in this city.”_

_Jason’s mouth twisted into a frown as he thought of the Dragon’s Den, where he knew the man in front of him had gotten his knuckles so bloody._

_Run by Roulette, a criminal entrepreneur with a raging hard-on for violence, the Dragon’s Den was an underground fighting arena in Blüdhaven’s municipal train yards. Their main events were called Meta-brawls, where meta-humans and aliens alike were pitted against each other for entertainment. It got shut down by the Justice League at least once a year, whenever some washed-up ex-Leaguer or sidekick got desperate and went to Roulette for a feature match, and some wannabe-journalist snuck in and took photos for the_ Gotham Gazette _._

_If ex-Capes wanted to get their asses handed to them by the east coast’s most desperate meta-crooks then that was their business, but Jason knew the fights that didn’t make the title card caused the real damage. Ones like the kind Jason’s informant had no doubt participated in. In those there were no high-stakes prizes, no screaming fans, and no names in neon above the arena; just a room full of sweaty, hungry men, betting their last dollars on themselves so that they might make enough to eat tonight._

_It made Jason’s blood boil, and he forced back the urge to tell his informant as much. Instead, he leaned back against his bike, trying to look casual, but also trying to dip his head low enough to catch the other Lower Gothamite’s eye. When he finally did, he made sure the kid held his gaze._

_“You ever get in trouble out there,” Jason said gruffly, “You got my number, alright?”_

_The kid’s face twisted in confusion for a moment, like he thought he was being tricked._

_“Nah, boss,” he finally said, shaking his head dismissively, “If I get in trouble out there it’ll be my own fault. I won’t go callin’ you to bail me out.”_

_Jason felt his composure slipping at the kid’s words. Because that’s what he was: a kid._

_For a moment, in the shadowy, mirrored surface of the Gotham River, it wasn’t the Red Hood’s crimson domino mask over Jason’s eyes, but another mask. A much older one. The reflection of the red in his bike and his mask melted into the murky greens of the polluted river; like a bloody and beaten body floating, bloated, just under the surface of a Lazarus Pit._

_Jason’s informant couldn’t have been more than nineteen and he was already subjecting himself to broken bones, chipped teeth and bloodied knuckles just to get by. Somewhere north of here, in an alley just off Park Row, Jason saw a flash of the first time he’d ever looked down at his hands and seen blood on them; his and another kid’s. Then he felt the scabs that were on his knuckles now – tonight, under this bridge in Lower Gotham – and he felt them itch under his gloves._

_He stood up, pushing off his bike and discarding the remains of his hot chocolate by haphazardly throwing the cup onto the footpath, where it coloured the grey concrete brown._ A hot chocolate for a bird with the temper of a ten-year-old, _he thought bitterly, even as he stood over the other man._

_Jason’s figure was imposing, dwarfing his informant in size. The boy flinched, but Jason ignored it._

_“If you get in trouble out there,” Jason growled, repeating the kid’s words back at him, “You’ll give me a goddamn chance to help you.”_

_Jason cocked his head to the side then, gesturing to the stairs that led back up onto the Diamond District’s bustling Saturday-evening streets._

_“Now give me that flash drive and get outta here.”_

Now Jason stood on the other side of that bridge; the Mercey Island side.

No one called it that anymore though, of course. Now it was called The Narrows.

Unmasked and in disguise, Jason stared at the spot where he’d met with his informant and received the information that had landed him here. He saw a flash of bright red graffiti on the other side of the Gotham River, and for a moment he mistook it for his own shiny red helmet. Tonight, the reddest thing on Jason’s face was his nose from the cold. Tonight, he wasn’t even Jason Todd, let alone Red Hood.

He took his black faux-leather wallet out of his back pocket to check his falsified driver’s license one last time. _Jensen Miles_ , it read, and Jason said the name to himself again. He’d studied his cover story thoroughly but still, it didn’t hurt to be sure.

Slipping his wallet back into the back pocket of his jeans, he was suddenly aware of how naked he felt. Even when he wasn’t in the Red Hood suit and helmet, with the mark of Batman splayed across his chest like a shield, his civvies were a costume in and of themselves. Jason almost always wore the same tight-fitting black jeans, black combat boots and blue denim bomber jacket – the kind with the wool-lined collar that felt safe and soft against his skin.

Even Jensen’s plastic-y new wallet felt foreign. Jason Todd’s wallet, on the other hand, was the only thing he’d salvaged from his pre-Lazarus life. It was a worn, brown leather thing that Alfred had bought him one year. Handmade, apparently, it was still just as sturdy as when he’d received it for Christmas that year.

The reminder of his old life – the fake one with the Christmas tree in the living room and presents under the tree weeks in advance – made him smile despite himself. The green of the Wayne family Christmas tree was brighter than anything on this side of the Gotham River could ever be – save maybe for the Joker’s greasy hair – and its fresh pine scent was nothing like the stifling air here.

The Narrows smelled somewhere between piss, roadkill and human sweat, and it invaded the air like a thick fog. It was like the molecules of whatever funk this was had merged with the oxygen in the air to create a gas that dried your mouth and made your eyes water all at once.

Still, it was hardly the worst thing Jason had ever smelled. So, he dug his hands deep into the pockets of his khaki jacket – some army surplus thing he’d found in a thrift store south of the river – and tried to resist the urge to scratch at his face.

His new beard had come in better than he’d anticipated, though he still wasn’t particularly impressed. In the mirror that morning he’d contemplated whether he was supposed to wash it with the rest of his face, and if he was meant to comb it like he combed the rest of his hair. He’d opted not to in the end, though he’d fiddled with for the entire day; trying to smooth it down whenever he could and pulling out his front-facing camera to look at it more times than he’d care to admit.

Jensen Miles ducked and weaved through the alleyways of The Narrows with such ease you might think he’d been born there. According to his birth records, however, he’d been born in Blüdhaven and had moved to Lower Gotham at the age of two with his father, who by all accounts had been a deadbeat.

As Jason leapt nimbly over a puddle of unidentified liquid, carefully avoiding the homeless man who was asleep on the pavement nearby, he wondered if he’d taken a little too much inspiration for his alias from his own life.

Before he could dwell on it, though, his destination came into view.

The Black Cat had once been the name of Gotham’s most popular gay nightclub. It had been situated in Downtown’s Fashion District, a block or so from Rootsville Park, and Jason had sneaked in there once as a teen.

He remembered the music pulsating through his feet and up into his head until his vision swam, and then there’d been hands dragging him towards the dancefloor and some guy had bought him shots, seeing Jason’s youth and assuming he was a first-time drinker. When Jason had drunk the guy under the table he’d moved on, trying not to think about what might have happened if he’d been a lightweight, and by the end of the night he’d been smoking cigarettes in a bathroom stall and intermittently making out with a guy about his own age.

The Black Cat as it stood today was a seedy bar-cum-brothel (pun absolutely intended) in the heart of The Narrows. A gaudy neon sign with a few unlit letters was the only indication of where you were, and there wasn’t even a bouncer out front. Instead, the only thing to greet you at the entrance was a faded poster of someone dressed as Catwoman, only she was on her back with her breasts bared and her legs spread wide.

There’d been a rumour back in the day that The Black Cat – the original – had been owned by Catwoman herself, but Jason doubted the villain-turned-cape would ever have her name associated with a place like this. _Not unless she’s undercover here too_.

As he followed a narrow corridor flanked by beaded doorways, Jason suppressed a cringe. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, where he could hear music blasting from, and tried to drown out the moans he heard coming from either side of him – just beyond the beads. He steadfastly ignored the silhouettes of bodies on top of each other that his well-trained peripheral vision homed in on immediately, and definitely didn’t dwell on a sound that he was sure was the cracking of a whip.

Finally, the corridor opened up like Catwoman’s legs in the poster had, and Jason was greeted by a room not unlike a saloon.

Old and creaky like everything in The Narrows, the interior of the building stood in stark contrast to the architecture outside. Gone were the faded, splintering woods of the slums; instead the walls of The Black Cat were lined with rich, polished oak panelling. Above Jason’s head, the second floor was an ornately carved balcony, where women in tiny skirts sat on the balustrades and wrapped their legs around the waists of faceless men in suits.

A great chandelier hung from the ceiling, like the kind Bruce had had ripped out of Wayne Manor’s ballroom when Jason was still a kid. Jason recalled him saying something about Alfred almost breaking his neck trying to light all the candles on the wrought iron monstrosity before a charity ball, and so it had been replaced with a much more modern (and electric) crystal chandelier. The Black Cat’s solution, it seemed, had been to string up Christmas lights and drape them all over the thing, lighting those instead of the candles that still sat in their places, dusty and melted down into stubs.

As a result of their jerry-rigged lighting, the downstairs floor of The Black Cat was dimly-lit and relied on a few garish pink strobe lights to fill the space. Those, however, were mostly pointed towards the tiny black pedestals positioned haphazardly around the room.

Each of these pedestals, of course, had their own pole, cage, or other contraption that looked more like something Jason expected to see in a supervillain’s torture chamber than in a strip club. Some were a foot off the ground and flanked by chairs, while others were raised high above the ground so that the dancers were out of arms reach.

On one of the latter, a stick-thin brunette twirled around a pole with ease, her sinewy arms bearing her weight better than Jason could have guessed they would. When she finally touched the ground again her eight-inch platforms wobbled a little, and Jason felt his muscles clench instinctively, readying himself to catch her if she fell.

She recovered easily, however, and a black-clad bouncer appeared from the shadows to help her down from her perch. Still, Jason was reminded that dancing wasn’t the glamourous job it looked to be.

Jason also took stock of the gun clipped to the bouncer’s hip, carefully raking his eyes over the brunette dancer so that he’d look like he was watching her and not the muscle. They didn’t appear heavily armed, but Jason wasn’t armed tonight period.

Jason’s right hand instinctively brushed his thigh, where his holster would usually have been. He felt a snake of unease coil up in his stomach.

Absent-mindedly, he found himself crossing the dance floor to the bar on the east side of the building. He ordered a beer, paid in cash from his unfamiliar wallet, and pulled Jensen’s burner cell from the pocket of his jacket.

_I’m at the bar. Where r u?_ Jason typed, holding the still-lit phone in his left hand while he drank with his right, impatient for a response.

It was something about the smell of this place that set Jason on edge. Maybe it was because it was the only place in The Narrows that didn’t invade his sinuses with the familiar stench of poverty, or maybe it was the alcoholic scent that he was sure was coming from cheap perfumes and colognes, and not from the bar he was now leaning against.

Suddenly aware of an itching on the back of his neck, Jason carefully rotated until his back was to the bar. Behind him, in the corner of The Black Cat’s saloon, a figure was watching him.

Jason checked his phone one last time, casually. Seeing no response from his contact, he turned the screen off and dropped the burner into the front pocket of his jeans. His hand followed, and Jason casually tucked one thumb through his belt loop.

He didn’t think much of the guy at first; some slender bleach-blonde thing with bright blue hot-pants and a pair of lazily tied high-top _Chuck Taylors_ that didn’t match the glittered smeared across his face at all. But as one of the rotating strobe lights ghosted over his face for a moment, Jason caught a glimpse of a pair of piercing blue eyes that were anything but ordinary.

“Jensen!” a baritone voice called from a table nearby, where a man whose size Jason could only liken to Solomon Grundy stood.

The man’s chair was pushed back with a squeak as he used his hands to push himself up from the table. In doing so he rattled every drink on the table, startling the girls he was sitting with into nervous laughter. A few people – including Jason – turned to look, and in that second the blonde in the _Chuck Taylors_ seemed to melt away.

“Gregory!” Jason called out in response, depositing his now-empty beer onto the bar beside him and closing the distance between himself and the large man.

Though they’d never actually met, they’d been set up by a mutual, prehistoric friend who owed Jason a few favours. They shook hands like two people who’d been partners in crime for years, and the familiarity was exactly the foot-in-the-door Jason had needed.

“Waylon says you are like family,” Gregory told him earnestly, his beady black eyes bright and sparkling as he spoke of their mutual friend.

Gregory was from the Ukraine and had immigrated to Blüdhaven as a teen with his father, who had set up a lucrative family business: selling party drugs to underage kids. Jason had been trying to get ahead of them in Blüdhaven for months, when two weeks ago he’d finally convinced Alfred to get him a ticket to the Ukraine.

Intending to cut the serpent off at the head, Jason had infiltrated the small base of operations where the drugs were being manufactured. He’d managed to destroy most of their product – with a little gasoline and only a half-dozen or so casualties – only to discover that Gregory’s father had died only days prior and left the entire empire to him.

_Cancer_ , Jason thought, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes as Gregory prattled on about his father’s legacy and the great man he’d been, _who’d have thought_.

As Gregory continued his introductory spiel – about his father and the central role the family’s honour played in their business – a redhead with a full bust and a lace thong deposited a new bottle of champagne on the table. Gregory paused briefly to smirk at her, giving her permission to refill their glasses (and a fresh one for Jason) with a calm wave of his hand.

The redhead bent over deliberately in front of Jason, meeting his eye and biting her lower lip as she poured his drink. She was wearing a halter-neck black crop top, and when she leaned over Jason spied a familiar symbol tattooed between her breasts. He gulped, immediately reminded of the identical symbol that another redhead he’d once known had worn splayed across her chest.

For a second the dancer leaning over in front of him was Barbara Gordon, and Jason shifted uncomfortably as he imagined Babs with an identical tattoo of the bat symbol. Jason imagined closing his mouth over it and nibbling at it until it was more bruise than Bruce.

He shifted in his chair with discomfort, which naturally the girl noticed. She locked eyes with him, and Jason was knocked out of his reverie – both by her overfilling his glass with champagne and pouring it all over his hands, and by the realisation that her eyes were brown, not Barbara Gordon’s crisp turquoise.

Gregory finished his story, and Jason parroted some part of it back to him as proof that he’d been listening. Then, Gregory nudged him in the ribs.

“If you want her,” he said, his voice raucous and booming from his belly, “She’s my treat.”

Jason brought his champagne flute to his lips, humming out a fake Wayne family laugh.

“She’s not my type,” Jason murmured, smiling his best cheeky playboy smile.

It was the smile he’d used to keep reporters and Gotham City socialites off his back for years, and it laid the ground work for a mysterious façade that Jason was as well-practiced at performing as his mentor had been.

As Jason spoke, the bleach-blonde in the _Chuck Taylors_ reappeared, this time on a pole a few feet behind Gregory. Because Jason sat opposite Gregory at the table, he had a perfect view of the guy’s ass, which swayed from side-to-side just above Gregory’s bald head.

“I just liked her tattoo,” Jason muttered distractedly, as he spied the same symbol from the girl’s sternum tattoo on Mr Chuck Taylor’s bright blue hot pants.

There was something about the way Chuck (Jason figured that was as good a name as any for the guy) was working the pole that was different to the other dancers. Though everyone else in the world was obviously skilled – Jason had swung around a pole or two in his days as Robin, and he knew exactly how much upper body strength it took to hold yourself up against gravity like that – Chuck’s movements were effortless.

He swung around the pole like Jason might swing on a grapple line, his muscular legs extending out from rounded, feminine hips towards a set of perfectly pointed toes. Jason wondered briefly what the guy had been in his life before The Black Cat, and he thought of all the gymnasts and ballerinas who had traipsed the halls of Gotham Academy. He could imagine this guy in cream-coloured tights and a leotard, with a gym bag and a pair of point shoes slung over his shoulder.

Chuck landed on his feet then, toes pointed outwards in a perfect ballet pose, though his arms remained stretched out above him, grasping the pole. Unlike the dancer Jason had observed earlier, Chuck’s landing was perfectly solid, and he didn’t wobble in the slightest. Rather, his movements were muscular and purposeful, as though he were in complete control. He arched his back away from the pole, a strobe light catching on his defined abs and the bulge in the front of his skin-tight shorts.

He curved his whole body next, twisting around the pole until he was facing Jason’s table, and the back of Gregory’s head. From there he sunk down to his knees, head turned to the side as he captured the eye of a middle-aged woman who sat in a chair nearby. She was clearly drunk and kept throwing more and more bills at his feet. Chuck’s long eyelashes grazed against his cheeks as his ass and knees hit the floor at the same time. He bowed his back outwards, the back of his blonde head hitting the pole, and snaked one hand down into the front of his Batman shorts.

He squeezed his hand in his shorts and Jason heard the woman he was dancing for squeal with delight. She threw a hefty handful of bills at him then and he smirked, biting his lip.

As though done, he removed his hand from his shorts, panting, and turned his head away from his customer.

And immediately locked eyes with Jason.

Jason felt a heat shoot through his body the second the blonde’s piercing blue eyes met with his own. He panicked for a moment, and sloppily put his drink down. He was straightening his beard before he could think about how stupid he looked.

And then, if he wasn’t mistaken, Mr Chuck Taylors _blushed_.

At first, Jason assumed the guy could do it on command – he was a stripper, after all – but then Chuck looked down at his hand, still resting on his abs from where it had been in his shorts, and hastily collected his cash before standing up. His legs were shaky when he stood, and he almost tripped as he descended the slightly raised platform had been standing on.

He disappeared into the shadows again a moment later, but not before Gregory turned around and caught a glimpse of exactly what Jason had been staring at.

“Ah,” the Ukrainian man said sagely, “I see what you mean when you say she wasn’t your type, uh?”

He quirked an eyebrow at Jason, scanning his khaki jacket and plain white tee like Batman might scan a crime scene. He seemed to chew on his words for a minute, during which time Jason had spied Chuck again.

The blonde man was striding towards the exit, now wearing a black leather jacket over his bare chest, towards the dimly lit hallway and beaded rooms Jason had walked past on the way in.

“Go,” Gregory growled at him, flicking a stack of hundreds towards Jason between two fingers.

Jason took the money instinctively, and stood when Gregory cocked his head behind his shoulder in the direction the blonde had gone in.

“I don’t talk business on the first date anyway,” Gregory added dismissively, waving his hands permissively like he had with the redheaded waitress from earlier.

Jason rounded the table, pocketing the money as he went, and shook Gregory’s hand. He put on his best charming smile, trying to focus.

_You’re on a case_ , he scolded himself, even as he schmoozed with Gregory and the beady-eyed man put the palm of his hand in Jason’s own again, this time to pass on a discreet note.

_Something about those eyes_ , Jason thought, as Gregory said:

“Meet me at that time and address tomorrow, and we’ll welcome you into the family.”

Jason was barely able to stutter out a thank you and a smile before he was stumbling after the guy in the bat-pants. When he got into the hall he looked from end-to-end and saw no sign of the guy. Ruefully, Jason stared at the door opposite him, its neon exit-sign flickering and buzzing. Behind it, on the outside window of The Black Cat, the poster of Catwoman flapped in the wind.

_Gone_ , Jason thought to himself as he slowly wandered down the hall towards the exit. He turned up the collar of his jacket, already bracing himself for the cold of The Narrows, and tried to untwist the snake that had coiled in his gut.

It was a mixture of heat and cold; lust and apprehension. He wondered if he’d really intended to sleep with this guy; some ex-ballerina in bat-print hot pants and gym sneakers. And boy, Freud sure would have a field day with those last two things.

He thought of the blonde’s muscular frame again; the way he moved with such precision, the little white highlights that peppered his chest and legs. Jason was sure they had been scars, but from what, he was less sure.

It was like there had been a magnet in his stomach that was attracted to the other man, urging itself out from his abdomen like a chest-burster in _Alien_. It had been all he could do to follow it.

Suddenly, Jason felt a calloused hand wrap around his mouth from behind, and he was pulled into an expert headlock. It was a familiar technique, and for a moment Jason froze in sheer shock. If he’d been able to speak, he might have said, _Bruce_?

Unable to struggle, lest his assailant break his neck, Jason allowed himself to be dragged into one of the beaded rooms. This one had a door as well as the beads that hung from the frame, and his assailant shut it with a loud _slam_.

In a flurry of movement and impeccable technique, Jason was thrown down onto a bed. It was draped in tacky pink sheets and there was a tray of condoms and lubricant on the bedside table. Before he could so much as react, Jason was pinned to the bed and the man’s hand was on his mouth again.

Jason managed to get his arms up this time, and buried one hand in his assailant’s hair, the other pushing uselessly against the guy’s bare chest.

With a choked sound from the back of his throat, Jason realised the hair under his fingers was brittle and straw-like, the way hair felt when it had been freshly bleached with a bottle from the pharmacy. _This is him_ , Jason thought, taking stock of the guy’s bright blue hot pants, now pressed up against Jason’s groin, and the leather jacket he wore over his completely bare and very scarred chest.

One of the scars was bigger than the others, and it spidered out from a place near his right collarbone. _A bullet wound_ , Jason realised grimly, moving the hand that was still on the guy’s chest up to trace it before he could think.

The blonde’s eyes were shut tight, probably because Jason was still gripping his hair so firmly, but Jason heard the guy’s breath catch in the back of his throat when Jason’s fingers met scar tissue.

“You want this, huh?” the guy was suddenly asking, his neck arched back from the way Jason was holding him.

While he steadied himself on the bed with one hand, he kept the other firmly clamped over Jason’s mouth.

The blonde’s hips were suddenly grinding down against Jason’s crotch – so firmly it hurt a little – and Jason was rock hard in an instant. To his immense surprise, the blonde was hard too, his thick, long length rubbing alongside Jason’s own through the agonisingly thick fabric of their pants.

Jason’s hips bucked up involuntarily and the guy on top of him growled, his hand moving from the beside Jason’s head on the bed to Jason’s hips, where the blonde pinned him down firmly.

“How much are you gonna pay?” the guy was asking, his voice low and heated, but Jason was too busy running his hands over the blonde’s immaculate chest to answer.

Jason’s hand made its way around the guy’s torso via his armpit, where his fingers grazed over thick black hair, and he ended up gripping down on the blonde’s shoulder as he wriggled under his weight, desperate for a little friction.

He stared up at the man on top of him, whose eyes were still clamped shut. His long lashes were perfect, and Jason wanted desperately to kiss them. He wanted to lick every inch of this guy’s body, including all the scars.

Jason rubbed his thumb over the spot where the remnants of an exit wound for the guy’s gunshot should be. _No exit wound_ , Jason noted, wondering perversely if this guy had ever been as close to death as Jason had.

Then recognition was crushing him like a tidal wave.

_“There’s no exit wound!” Jason shouted, his barely-teenaged voice harried and cracking._

_He was talking so fast he couldn’t be sure Bruce had understood him, but it was all he could do not to break down into a blubbering mess._

_They were in the Batcave. Jason’s green cape was sprawled across the steel floor as he knelt over the lifeless body of a fellow bird. He could feel a lump rising in his throat and he snuffled back a tear, heard it echo off every surface in the atrium of the Cave._

_Jason used his shoulder to wipe at his nose briefly, not daring to lift either of his hands off the gunshot wound he was trying to compress. His green gloves had soaked up so much blood they’d turned red, and bile rose in his throat as he realised that even rubbing his nose with his shoulder had smeared blood all over his face._

_God, it was everywhere._

_Bruce was somewhere deep in the Cave clanging around, looking for medical supplies and shouting raggedly for Alfred._

_The worst part was, once they’d finished triage and Nightwing was either stabilised or- actually, Jason didn’t want to think about the ‘or’. But at any rate, he wouldn’t be able to tell Bruce how it had happened. He’d just found Dick like this, slumped over a highway barricade barely half a mile from the Manor._

_Jason had been practicing his aerial manoeuvring (without Bruce’s knowledge) in a field off the Pettsburg Highway – one that Nightwing had used to teach him a few times because it was smattered with northern red oak trees, which were perfecting for swinging off – and so he’d been on foot._

_He didn’t remember much of the run – well, the stumbling jog – back to the Manor, but for once Jason had been grateful he was so much bulkier than Dick._

_For most of his career as Robin, Jason had envied Dick’s lean form because it enabled him to manoeuvre around the inner city in ways that Jason couldn’t dream of. Jason, on the other hand, was broad-shouldered and built like a barn._

_Tonight, Jason had found out that his broad shoulders were perfect for slinging a limp body over while you fumbled your way through the dark, rocky fields of Gotham’s outskirts, sweating and crying and trying to remember just where the hell the Cave’s emergency tunnel hatch was._

_Jason had found it and the security system had alerted Bruce immediately, who’d met him halfway down the tunnel and scooped Dick up into his arms without a word. There hadn’t even been a Bat cowl over his face to hide his terror, and Jason wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d visibly shuddered at the look his father gave him._

_“Dick, stay with me,” Jason blubbered, fully crying now._

_Dick’s eyes fluttered half-open for a moment and their usually piercing blue was hazy like the morning sky._

_Fighting back against the taste of sick in his mouth, Jason pleaded, “Please, Dick, it’s Jay, open your eyes for me.”_

The blonde’s grip on Jason’s mouth loosened as he moaned unreservedly and thrusted harder against Jason’s hips. Jason took the opportunity to shake his head violently, freeing his mouth.

“Open your eyes,” Jason commanded roughly.

He cringed at the gravelly sound of his own voice. It was deeper than usual and wet with lust. Despite his best efforts, his erection didn’t fade, and he realised that Dick – or whoever this persona of Dick’s was – smelled good; like opium candles and soap.

Dick ignored him, his hips beginning to stutter now. His grip on Jason’s waist was loosening now too, and Jason watched both of his toned arms move so that they were braced on either side of Jason’s head. He could smell the sweat from Dick’s pits now, salty and heady, and Dick’s voice was quaking and dirty.

“Don’t you want to fuck me?” his older counterpart asked, mouth twisting into a faint smile as he twisted his hips into Jason’s and grunted.

“I need,” Jason began, wondering where that sentence was even going.

_I need you to take off these stupid pants_ , Jason’s dick finished for him.

But instead he said, “I _need_ you to open your eyes for me.”

Finally, Dick complied, and for a moment his blue eyes met Jason’s own.

They weren’t the same piercing, surveying eyes Jason had seen in the main room of The Black Cat earlier, and they weren’t the friendly eyes that Jason had come to know through his teenage years. No, tonight Dick’s pupils were blown huge and his eyes were round and open.

For a moment he was looking at Jason with raw desire; he panted heavily and mapped Jason’s features like a man desperate for a way out. A way out of what, Jason wasn’t sure.

Then desire mutated into shock. His relaxed brows twisted into a grimace and his mouth hung open for a moment, his breath dying somewhere in the back of his throat. He made a choking noise, and, in a heartbeat, he had leapt off Jason and was standing at the foot of the bed, shoulders squared and nostrils flaring.

“Jay, what the _fuck_?” he hissed, mouth contorting into an enormous scowl that would have put Batman’s to shame.

Jason got to his feet much slower than his older counterpart and took a moment to rearrange himself in his jeans. Dick watched Jason’s hand and blushed immediately, his own hands darting in front of his crotch as though to protect his modesty. Jason followed the motion with his eyes and held back a smirk, trying not to gross himself out.

“Figured you’d end up with a stripper gig eventually, Grayson,” Jason quipped hollowly, digging his hands into his pockets and rounding the bed.

He picked up one of the bottles of lubricant on the bedside table idly, turning up his nose when he saw the cheap brand and the amount of alcohol and filler product that was in the ingredients.

“I’m working a _case_ ,” Dick whispered indignantly, gaping at Jason like he’d just grown a second head.

Jason threw his hands out from his sides, gesturing around him. In the same motion he tossed the lubricant onto the bed, where it landed with a small bounce. It drew both their eyes and Jason watched with depraved interest as Dick’s entire face flushed a bright red.

“And what do you think I’m doing, exactly?” Jason snarked.

“I don’t know,” Dick quipped, shrugging his shoulders in his leather jacket.

To Jason’s immense discomfort, a shirt hadn’t magically materialised beneath Dick’s jacket, and Jason spent a moment too long staring at his abs. Dick noticed – because of course he did – and wrapped his jacket tighter around himself, obscuring Jason’s view.

“This seems like your kind of place,” Dick finished, zipping up his jacket.

Jason watched his hands fumble with the base of the zipper for a moment, and he felt his stomach somersaulting as he realised Dick was still hard in his Batman booty shorts.

Jason took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them a little. The bed was a four-poster, so Jason took a spot leaning against one of the supports. He arched his back casually, stretching out his legs so that his boots almost touched Dick’s sneakers. He made sure to jut his hips out, just a little, so that Dick saw they were on even footing in the erection department.

Dick stared at his younger counterpart’s crotch for a long moment, wide-eyed, and Jason didn’t bother to suppress his smirk this time.

“My kinda place, huh?” Jason mused, repeating Dick’s words back at him. “Funny, ‘cause far as I can see, you’re the one who just tried to fuck your own baby brother.”

“I don’t exactly recall you complaining,” Dick snapped back immediately, but his eyes barely moved from Jason’s crotch.

Jason stood up straight then, closing the rest of the distance between himself and Dick. He eyed the older man up and down, licking his lips. He was close enough now that he could feel Dick’s hot breath on his face, hear it when he swallowed and tried to moisten his dry mouth.

Jason dug his hand into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved the fistful of money that Gregory had bestowed upon him. With an unforgivingly bright-white smirk, Jason shoved the bills into the waist of Dick’s shorts, careful to brush his knuckles up against his older counterpart’s skin for just a second too long.

Dick slapped his hand away immediately, glaring at Jason.

“What the fuck?” he cried shrilly.

Jason kept his smirk firmly planted on his face and said innocently, “Well, since we’re both-” he cast his eyes down at Dick’s get-up, letting his eyes linger hungrily, “- _clearly_ undercover, we’ve gotta make it look real, babe.”

Jason was laughing now, his smirk turning up at the corners into a shit-eating grin. He clutched his stomach with one hand, amused and relieved all at once as his erection finally subsided.

“And holy shit, dude,” he chortled, “Those _pants_.”

“Shut up,” Dick retorted, his voice clear and free of any lingering lust now.

Dick’s words bit through the air and Jason’s laughter quietened a bit, though he still was still chuckling lowly as he asked:

“Does Bruce know?”

Dick smacked him then. The lazy, open-handed smack of an exasperated older brother. It was earth-shatteringly familiar, and it felt like Dick had climbed into his mouth and stolen the breath from his throat.

“What about you?” Dick seethed, though his anger was cracking into humour a little now. “What the ever-loving Christ is with that beard, Jay?” he all-but cried, “And I’m not the one who wanted to _fuck_ the guy in the Batman hot pants, okay?”

Jason paused. Dick did have a point, especially about that last part. He shook his head, feeling the last of his good spirits drain from his body. It was always like this with Dick now; a few moments of bubbly, fog-clearing energy that rocketed Jason into the sky, followed by a heart-wrenching crash back to earth.

“You need someone to escort you home?” Jason joked hollowly, trying desperately to crawl his way back into the moment they’d just shared.

_Back into Grayson’s arms_ , he thought, startling himself.

“Sure,” Dick said easily.

Now it was the older man’s turn to smirk, as he turned sharply on his heel, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

“We can exchange case notes.”

Dick paused at the door of the private room. Briefly, his hand lingered on the doorknob and he turned his head to gaze back at the tacky pink bed and the discarded bottle of lube that sat in the middle of it.

_Maybe he wants to stay_ , Jason thought madly.

But all Dick said was, “Well… you can give me your notes and then I can tell you if I still need your help.”


	14. 12. Arsenal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**
> 
> Graphic depictions of violence, canon-typical violence, swearing, blood, injuries, life-threatening injuries

It’s been two days since Damian woke up. Two days, and Bruce has already ditched Gotham again.

Jason’s in the grounds of Wayne Manor when it happens.

He’s perched on top of the roof of the garage, doing a handstand, with Dick by his side. They’re precariously close to the edge, and Alfred has told them off four times already for being up there. _Don’t you think you’re setting a bad example for your brothers, Master Dick_ , Jason mimicked in his head, _Must you spend_ all _your time on the rooftops, Master Jason_. But Alfred’s words hadn’t had the same bite to them that they usually had when he was ripping into them for something (not that Jason had been on the receiving end of that for many years). There’d been a softness in his eyes, a look of understanding. Jason was pretty sure he was the only one who’d caught it – that it had been intended for him, even.

He still wasn’t used to that feeling. Standing on his hands, shirtless, like some frat boy on the garage roof of his childhood home, trying to outlast his older brother in a vain and juvenile contest, he had the distinct sensation that people wanted him there. The soft look in Alfred’s eyes, Tim’s laughter as he looked up from his laptop by the pool every so often. The way even Damian had to shoot him a smirk once or twice as he goaded Dick with the best insults he could muster.

Truth was, Jason was doing it for that last part: for Damian’s sly little smirk. They spent so much time being teammates, tentative allies, or enemies, they hardly knew what having a brother was like. Tim’s words echoed in Jason’s head as he felt the blood finally starting to pulse in his ears a little, _He’s not here half the time anymore!_

Jason was just beginning to contemplate packing it in and climbing down. He was thinking that maybe he’d feign exhaustion, flop to the ground and place a hand over his forehead. _You’ve bested me, oh great Nightwing!_ he’d say, and he’d get another contented little laugh out of Tim, and Nightwing would somersault off the roof effortlessly, landing a gentle kick in Jason’s ribs before helping him up. With any luck, his older counterpart might even be smiling.

They’d hardly spoken a word since that night in the Cave – when he’d promised Dick he’d stay – but Jason was pretty sure Dick knew what game he was playing at. As if on cue, Dick cocked his head slightly, sparing a glance towards the pool and indicating that Jason do the same. Jason followed his brother’s gaze, their hands almost grazing where they were braced on the tiled roof. And sure enough, Dick’s eyes were on Damian. The kid was smiling again, shirtless and soaking up the sun, though his torso was still bandaged. His cat (another Alfred) was curled on his lap, enjoying the soft heat of the day as well.

“You’re doing good here,” Dick said pensively, letting out what might have been a sigh.

The acrobat readjusted his stance then, and now his hand brushed Jason’s. Were they in some stupid teen movie, Jason might have thought it was accidental; a little static shock brought between them by happenstance. But Jason knew Dick was the most precise and coordinated man in the city – maybe even the world. Somehow that made it better, knowing that Dick had meant to touch him like that.

“His mom would be pissed if I wasn’t,” Jason admitted sheepishly, turning his head fully away from Dick’s now so that he could only see Damian and Tim.

That’s when they saw it. The familiar green glow of energy from a Green Lantern’s ring, rising up from the tree-line at the edge of the Manor’s lawns like a great bubble. From Jason and Dick’s vantage point they could just make out a few other figures within the emerald orb, one of which took on the uncanny silhouette of a bat.

Jason and Dick immediately turned to look at each other. Dick’s pupils were blown a little wider than usual, and his face was flushed from standing upside-down for so long. It reminded Jason a little of the kiss they’d shared that night when they’d thought Damian was going to die, and he chastised himself for even thinking about that. Right now, Dick’s mouth was nothing but a thin line of concern.

They shared a synchronised nod and then they were both somersaulting off the roof gracefully, neither of them making a sound as their bare feet connected with the sealed concrete of the Manor’s rear driveway.

Dick locked eyes with Tim almost immediately, who was already shoving his commlink in his ear and typing furiously on his laptop.

Alfred was behind them in an instant, saying something like, “Master Bruce would like you all to know he’ll be out on League business for a few days.”

Jason didn’t really hear him though, the buzzing in his head drowning out the butler’s words as he sought out Damian’s gaze. The boy had been petting the cat in his lap, but now his hand had stilled; the only indication that something might be bothering him.

After an acceptable period, Damian gently scooped up the cat from his lap and deposited it on his shoulders. He stood carefully, but even so, he winced a little. Before Jason could think he was crossing the lawn to the pool area, padding over the warm, smooth tiles in his tracksuit pants.

Then he was helping Damian up, even as the boy protested with an acid tongue.

“I’m not an invalid, Hood,” Damian hissed, shoving Jason away.

Jason bit down the bile he felt at the use of that name when he wasn’t wearing the helmet or armour. He thought about how he’d called Dick _Nightwing_ two nights ago though, and promptly decided that, all things considered, he probably deserved whatever low-blows were about to come his way.

Damian had stretched his ribs too far when he’d shoved Jason, and now he fell back down on the sun bed he’d been sitting on and winced.

“You’ll be healed within the week,” Jason assured him, his tone colder than he’d meant it.

Jason was still god-awful at talking about the Lazarus Pit and all of the effects it had had on himself – let alone on his younger brother – and he was sure Damian could hear it in his voice.

But if his youngest counterpart noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he took to staring at Jason’s feet like they were the most interesting things he’d ever seen. Jason wondered if the kid was thinking to himself, _Seriously, how did he manage to get a bullet wound in his_ foot?

“Damian,” Jason tried again when the boy made no other attempt to move or respond to him.

Jason could feel eyes on him – Dick’s and Tim’s – and it made him unsure of himself. He found himself crouching down until he and Damian were the same height, and he carefully leaned back onto his haunches so that he wasn’t crowding the kid.

“Look,” he said, dropping his voice so that the other birds couldn’t hear him, “You just have to let your body do its thing, okay, kid?”

Damian didn’t say anything, but eventually he nodded. Jason just sat there for a while, as Tim caught Dick up on the Justice League case that Bruce was working. Something off-world, apparently, and Dick seemed pretty convinced that Alfred’s estimate of a few days had been on the low side. Jason knew Damian could hear all of this too, and that he knew what that meant.

After a while, Damian spoke. His voice held a familiar quietness, the kind that the League of Assassins drilled into you. It wasn’t a whisper, it was decibels lower than that. To the untrained ear it would have sounded like Damian had just exhaled a particularly long breath.

“Red Robin can’t go out on his own tonight,” the boy said, his words for Jason and Jason alone.

Behind the boy’s black-haired head, stretched out on a sun bed, Dick was already talking about the case he’d be working in Blüdhaven tonight. Under different circumstances Jason might have been mad at his older counterpart, but how could he be? Dick’s perfectly chiselled abs were on full display, the only thing covering his body a pair of tiny cotton pool shorts. They were pink, which Jason had heckled him about earlier. Dick had dipped his mouth towards Jason’s ear and whispered _you sure you don’t like them?_ and Jason had felt his whole face go red. Dick had made a tiny _huff_ of pleasure before traipsing away.

“Well,” Jason said, smiling now and standing upright.

He held his hands out for Damian, who took them carefully and allowed Jason to steady him as he eased himself to his feet. Alfred the cat was still draped lazily around his neck, and Jason reached out to give the creature an idle pet. That seemed to earn some brownie-points with Damian. Encouraged, Jason continued, a little twinkle in his eye:

“It’s a good thing the Red Hood’s in town then, isn’t it?”

**

Red Hood and Red Robin fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Their combat manoeuvres were perfectly synchronised even with only one fight under their collective belts. Jason felt like he could do anything beside Tim, and the electricity in the air told him that his younger counterpart felt the same.

_Hell, I haven’t even called him ‘replacement’ once tonight_ , Jason thought to himself as he crouched on the gargoyle of a building in Park Row. It was his old haunt – his oldest – and Tim hadn’t protested when he suggested they start their patrol there. Jason figured Tim knew he was from here; Tim knew everything. According to Dick, his stalking of the Bat-clan had begun even before Jason’s untimely demise.

Tim couldn’t have been older than Damian then, and Jason thought briefly of his own youth. In his mind’s eye he saw himself on his knees just a block north of here, the hood of his jumper pulled up over his head as he frantically unscrewed one of the Batmobile’s hubcaps. He still remembered the rush in his belly when Bruce had caught him, those hideous fangs Bruce called teeth curling upward into what should have been a blood-curdling smile.

Jason wondered if Tim had felt the same way, taking his little pictures of the three of them – Batman, Robin and Nightwing. He figured the kid probably did, because once you got a taste you couldn’t go back – not really.

_Click, click, click_.

Tim’s spy-sized bat-camera clicked a few times and then he was adjusting the lens with a green-gloved hand, zooming in.

Tim sat on the gargoyle next to him, his long black cape draped around it and encircling them both so that he was nothing but a shadow on Gotham’s murky horizon. The smog dimmed the moon tonight, as it always did, but it suited them both that way – suited their work.

They were doing their due diligence, as Tim had put it, by standing vigil in the very heart of Park Row for another fourteen minutes exactly. Tim liked schedules and had spent the ride here recalculating his to suit Jason’s preferred route.

“We’ll take Park Row first,” Jason had said, because that’s where it always felt right to start patrols.

If he was being honest with himself, it made him feel closer to Batman. Not to Bruce, but to the heart of who _Batman_ really was. Jason had slowed the car down as they drove past that fateful spot, and Tim had asked him why. There had been a true innocence in his voice, so Jason had said, “thought I saw something” and kept driving.

“Still can’t believe we’re taking the Batmobile,” he’d muttered after that, shaking his head even as his hands gripped the car’s tactical steering column.

Jason was pretty sure he still remembered what all the buttons did, but he’d probably double-check with Tim before he touched anything anyway. The kid had been using the car’s onboard computer system but now he looked up, furrowing his brow.

“Two sweeps of Park Row?” he’d inquired.

“Yep,” Jason had replied, “One at the start of the shift and one at the end.”

Tim had paused for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. Then he’d just murmured, “God knows the place needs it.”

Now Tim was rattling off the rest of their itinerary, “… Midtown via the hospital and the university, then into the Diamond District through The Narrows, followed by a quick loop around Toxic Acres and- are you sure you want to go right through the main street of Chinatown?”

“Mm-hm,” Jason hummed.

When Tim didn’t look convinced he nodded down at the alley below, their gazes both falling on the now-parked batmobile.

“In that car?” he said shortly.

“Draws a lot of attention,” Tim murmured.

To which Jason countered, “It also scares most of the petty crims away.”

Tim didn’t argue with him after that and finished listing all the places they’d hit. When he finally wrapped up he said, “It’s better when we can delegate and give everyone their own beat.”

“Beat,” Jason laughed, hopping nimbly off his gargoyle to stretch his legs before they went numb. “You sound like a cop.”

He snorted when Tim turned to level a glare at him.

“Or Dick Grayson,” Tim said hotly, his voice lowering a little as though he were scared someone would hear him.

Jason tossed the kid’s conclusion around in his head for a moment. It was true, Nightwing was the vigilante who most resembled a cop out of all of them, and that was the part he played in his daily life. But Jason wasn’t so sure that was true of Dick Grayson, not deep down, and Jason knew from experience that no Robin was a cop.

“Maybe he’ll arrest daddy for all the breakin’ and enterin’ he does,” Jason finally quipped back as he bent down to touch his toes.

He was in the middle of readjusting his domino mask – which still felt a little alien on his face, especially with the shit that passed for adhesive these days. Tim had explained that it was resistant to most commercial and industrial solvents and was only compatible with the kind kept in the Batcave and at the various League headquarters around the country. It meant that no villain with a little chemistry know-how could compromise their secret identities, but the stuff smelled like a tyre fire.

“ _Shit_ ,” Tim said emphatically, and Jason was immediately on his feet.

He crossed the roof and stood just behind Tim’s perch on the gargoyle. Tim was looking through his bat-noculars and frantically trying to chase something a few blocks in the distance.

“What?” Jason barked, and Tim shot him a frankly terrified look before handing the binoculars over.

It took Jason a moment of frantic searching to find Tim’s target down the street. When he did, he found himself unexpectedly smiling.

“Look,” Jason began, eyeing the tension in his younger counterpart’s shoulders and jaw.

Jason felt his brow furrowing in confusion as he noticed how Tim was white-knuckling the gargoyle beneath him, how his legs trembled just slightly from how tight he was clenching his whole body.

“I know you got a history with KC,” he continued, “But Waylon’s not the monster you think he is.”

“No,” Tim hissed, snatching the bat-noculars back from Jason’s hands, “You idiot, didn’t you see what he was carrying?”

Jason hadn’t seen Croc carrying anything. In the brief moment he’d seen Croc, he’d been poking his head out the door of an abandoned building, like he was concerned about being followed. Jason supposed that it was their city, so they should go and at least ask the big guy what was happening, but the panic in Tim’s voice seemed unfounded.

Tim took Jason’s silence as a ‘no’ and blurted, “He was carrying R- Arsenal. Unconscious.”

Jason’s eyes widened, but even as concern for his friend coiled itself deep in his gut he stared at Tim’s hands, the way they were shaking around the bat-noculars. He hadn’t known that Red Robin and Arsenal had met, let alone were on a first name basis. Something in Tim’s shattered expression caused Jason to push his questions away though, and in a heartbeat, he was springing into action, already about to leap off the roof and down into the alley were the batmobile was lying out of sight.

“Go!” he shouted at Tim, hoping the frantic scurry across the rooftops to Roy’s position would focus the boy somewhat. “I’ll bring the car around.”

The tyres of the batmobile came to a screeching halt in front of the boarded-up apartment building not a minute later. Tim hit the ground in front of the car at a run, staff already out, and Jason was barely a second behind, leaping out of the batmobile’s rooftop hatch and scarcely remembering to lock the thing behind him.

He was out without a gun again tonight, but Damian had quietly tucked his sword – Talia’s sword – into the backseat of the batmobile. Jason had seen him do it, of course, and they’d shared barely a second of eye contact before Damian was disappearing into the shadows of the Cave and making his way back to his bed upstairs. In that brief moment, Jason had looked stern, he knew – which was no doubt why Damian had made a beeline back to his bed – but he hadn’t been able to help it. On the one hand, he wanted to tell Damian that the blade was too long, too gaudy, and completely impractical for the kind of close-quarters combat that Gotham vigilantes were so often faced with. But on the other, Jason was being bestowed with a family heirloom; a trusted and irreplaceable possession from the woman who had trained them both.

Jason grabbed the sword from the backseat as he leapt out of the car and pounded up the stairs of the duplex after Tim.

By the time he was inside he had it slung snugly across his back, and the loud “FUCK!” he heard echo through the gutted building made him draw it from its sheath.

It was Roy’s voice – that distinct Star City accent he’d picked up in his many years there as Speedy clear as day – and Jason felt panic rise up into his throat like the green bubble that had carried Batman away earlier that afternoon.

He approached with Damian’s sword clasped firmly in both hands, holding it in a proper stance that he knew Roy would make fun of him for if he had all of his senses.

Another scream told Jason he didn’t, and he heard a heated exchange between Roy and Tim.

“Don’t you fucking touch it, Red,” Roy hissed, then groaned in pain again.

Jason rounded a pile of debris – an old TV, a couch that was so old it was practically decomposing, and a stack of chairs piled to the sky. When he got around it, the pair finally came into view.

“You have to let me take it out, Roy,” Tim was saying flatly, his voice conveying none of the panic Jason had seen in him on the rooftop a minute ago.

Roy was stretched out on an old kitchen countertop, the only thing left standing in the entire apartment by the looks of it. His hat was missing, and his orange hair was slicked to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were open; wild and manic, and his whole body was bucking off the table in pain.

In his abdomen, the lone, red spine of one of his own arrows stuck out of his flesh.

Jason had sheathed his sword and swept across the room in an instant, and then his hand was on Roy’s forehead, sweeping his hair out of his eyes.

“T-thanks, Jaybird,” the archer replied weakly, his eyes fluttering shut.

The fact that he didn’t even have the wits to be surprised that Jason was working with Red Robin in Gotham was terrifying, but what was worse was how much blood had already pooled on the counter below him.

“You need a hospital!” Tim exclaimed shrilly, bandages and gauze appearing from nowhere in the kid’s hands as he applied pressure around the arrow.

Roy howled in pain and Jason silently wished he had a gun strapped to his leg to grip onto, or to put the handle of it in Roy’s mouth so he had something to bite down on.

So, he took his combat knife off his belt and tried to put the thing between Roy’s teeth, a weapon that had been between both their teeth numerous times before when anaesthesia wasn’t an option.

But Roy wrenched his head away, arching away from Jason until he was curled up on his side, facing Tim.

“They’re still coming for us,” the archer managed to grit out.

Jason saw his eyes close and his breathing grow more laboured, like it always did right before he threw up. Instinctively, Jason rounded the table and put his hands on Red Robin’s shoulders, gently peeling the boy away just in time to avoid getting puke on his shoe. Roy looked up at him with what might have been gratitude, and Jason snatched a piece of clean gauze from Tim’s hands to wipe at Roy’s mouth.

“Who’s still coming for you?” Jason asked as he folded the gauze over and patted it against Roy’s forehead.

Jason could hear Tim behind him, the boy’s breath whistling hard and fast through his nose. There was a history here. Jason didn’t know what, but he knew that he was the only poor sucker in the room who was used to seeing the people he loved on their deathbeds. Tim, on the other hand, was losing it.

“Some guns Waller hired to track down KC after he escaped,” Roy managed to say.

Then the idiot tried to sit up and Jason and Tim both had to wrestle him back down onto the bench.

“He needs to go to the Cave,” Tim said meekly, the shrillness from earlier still tweaking his voice an octave or so higher.

“Not until it’s done,” Roy growled, anger streaking across his face like a great jolt of pain (which was probably what caused his sudden outburst).

“But what if you die,” Tim was saying, his voice barely more than a gasp, and then Roy was looking at Jason pleadingly, with the ghost of something else between his eyes that Jason would have to piece together later.

“Where’s Croc?” he asked instead, cocking his head over his shoulder at Tim.

Suddenly Jason felt bad about being between the two men, so he extricated himself and shunted Tim closer with a hand on his counterpart’s flank. Tim took up the position easily, one of his hands reaching for Roy’s face and then withdrawing it immediately. Roy shot a look at Jason that said _don’t do this now_ , but Jason knew that Tim’s hesitation hadn’t been because of Jason’s prying eyes; Tim’s hands were covered in blood, and he didn’t want to smear it all over Roy’s already bloodied body.

“Checking the perimeter,” Roy finally answered.

Jason was turning on his heel and stalking out of the room before anyone could say another word. He turned so sharply he thought that if he wore a cape it would have snapped in the air. He felt like Batman, especially when he called orders to Tim back over his shoulder, “Get him behind that bench and keep him alive,” he was saying, then shouting as he took off at a sprint down what remained of the apartment building’s hallway, “And stay in radio contact!”

The ensuing firefight was hellish. Never in his life had Jason enjoyed a fight less. Croc fought valiantly beside him, tanking bullets like they were raindrops, while Jason dodged out of the way with the grappling gun he’d taken out of storage at the Cave. If he wasn’t going to be shooting anybody, he needed an extra element of surprise.

He dropped down on the men one-by-one, like Batman… if Batman carried a sword. He knocked them unconscious, mostly, smashing the hilt of Damian’s sword into a lot of brainstems and slicing a lot of ankles. When he broke the first guy’s jaw with a well-placed punch and his machine gun clamoured to the ground, Jason had to grind his teeth together to keep himself from picking it up.

He thought of Roy in the next room, bleeding out and probably dead, and then he thought of Tim. Tiny Tim, the one who’d cried into his chest for hours that night in the Cave. Tim who was so opposed to death and who had such a righteousness in his heart that he’d _chosen_ to be Robin in a way that no one else ever had. He imagined Tim cradling Roy in his arms as he died, and Jason tossed the machine gun down the jaws of a mouth made of jagged floorboards that opened up into the basement.

He slammed his boot into the throat of the next one, knocking him clean out. He sliced at the arms of some of the others, brought the tip of Damian’s sword up to the neck of one in particular who had spat an insult at him. He was so close to doing it that his hands shook, but then Croc was smashing an end table over the guy’s head and that was the last of them.

Jason’s suit was nicked with cuts and scrapes and he could feel bruises forming everywhere on his chest. He could barely breathe, sucking in air like he was drowning, and Croc swayed on his feet. But Jason couldn’t rest – didn’t dare.

Instead, he was sprinting along the length of the apartment block, leaping over piles of debris and bodies without a second thought – he figured the cops would be here soon anyway. Croc was hot on his heels, and Jason came to a screeching halt halfway to the apartment where he’d left Roy and Tim.

He turned to Croc and barked, “Go find someplace to lay low, I’ll know how to contact you when I know something.”

Croc was looking at him with the eyes of a predator, adrenaline (or whatever crocodile men had) no doubt still pumping through his veins. His fists clenched and then relaxed, and Jason took that as agreement.

But he stepped towards the prehistoric man anyway, lowering his voice and holding Croc’s gaze firmly.

“I will not let him die,” Jason promised, even as he imagined Roy dead as he spoke those words.

It’s what Batman would say – what Robin would say – he realised, and he silently cursed the ghost he could never quite escape.

But that ghost seemed to comfort Croc somehow, and then they were peeling their eyes off each other and running in separate directions down the hall.

When Jason reached Roy and Tim’s room, Tim was already hauling an unconscious and pale Roy to his feet.

“Think I stopped the bleeding,” the kid muttered, his suit covered in blood from his collar to his boots.

Tim grunted as he slung one of Roy’s arms around his shoulders and Jason was struck by how small Tim was – how young. Roy wasn’t even six foot and Tim could still barely lift him, and the archer was on the light side as far as superheroes went.

“Here, let me,” Jason offered, reaching out his arms and getting ready to carry Roy bridal-style – not for the first time in their long and gory history.

“No!” Tim growled, the strength in his voice surprising Jason.

With another strained grunt, Tim somehow managed to haul the older ex-sidekick into his arms. He looked possessive and he was fuming. Jason wondered if it was because he’d missed out on the fight, missed out on getting a chance to crack the skulls of the people who’d done this to Roy – who Tim apparently cared so much about.

Jason took point on their way out the front door, not even bothering to draw his sword so that he could unlock the batmobile faster. He could hear sirens in the distance now, drawing nearer, and he urged Tim onwards with a short, “Quick.”

“I know,” Tim grumbled, allowing Jason to help him hoist Roy’s limp body into the back of the batmobile.

“Get in the back and keep an eye on him,” Jason was saying as he leapt into the front seat and took the steering column in his hands.

Tim seemed grateful for the direction and his eyes started to come back into focus somewhat then. He kept one finger on Roy’s pulse and lifted the other up to his radio, where he hailed Alfred on the comms and warned him to be prepared for triage.

Jason was glad they were still so close to home, and was thinking about saying, _see, this is why you visit Crime Alley twice_ , when Roy began to stir.

Jason put his foot to the ground then, which caused the batmobile to blast past everything in its way. The other cars on the road were a blur, the buildings were a blur, and if Jason hadn’t known this route so well that it was muscle memory, he might have taken a wrong turn.

Roy was murmuring something, and Jason strained his ears to hear it.

“Kori…” he managed to say, his breath ragged and catching on fluid in his throat. _Probably blood,_ Jason thought grimly. “Went back to Tamaran,” the archer finished, and Jason felt his stomach sink on his friend’s behalf.

For a moment, stuck in the cramped batmobile with Red Robin between himself and Roy, Jason felt like he and his best friend were the only two people in the world. He thought about their crashed ship, and their little tropical island, and wished that Roy had been allowed to die there in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” Jason breathed after he wrenched the steering column again.

It was the second last turn he’d have to make, the last one being onto the side road that led to the Batcave. Now they had about two minutes to sit and pray as they crossed the bridge out of Uptown and towards the mainland where the Manor stood alone in its fields.

Some air escaped Roy’s lungs that Jason thought might have been the poor guy trying to laugh, and when he spoke next, he had a smile in his voice.

“Don’t be, Jaybird,” he breathed, and Jason heard a shifting sound as Roy and Tim rearranged their limbs on the backseat.

Jason caught a glance of what they were doing in the rear-view mirror and his heart shattered right there. Not two days ago Jason had seen Tim hold Damian’s hand the same way, and now the seventeen-year-old was being put through it all over again. Only this time… Well, as Roy put it:

“Be sorry if this one ever leaves me.”

And then Roy was smiling, and his eyes were closing, and Jason was easing up on the accelerator to make it safely past the Cave’s waterfall. Jason and Tim both held their breaths as the car dove through the curtain of water, like if they didn’t they’d drown in it.

_Drown in blood’s more like it_ , Jason thought darkly as he slammed on the brakes and opened the roof in the same movement.

Tim rocketed out of the car in an instant, already barking a description of Roy’s injuries and relevant medical info at Alfred, who was already clad in gloves and a surgical mask.

Jason made short work of hauling Roy out of the car. He sprinted down the hall to the med-bay and was assaulted by a not-so-distant memory of carrying Damian down here the same way only a few nights ago.

Jason felt panic rise in his chest, and thoughts that he’d been trying so hard to keep hidden started to rise to the surface. _This job is too dangerous,_ the weak voice that had reared its ugly head after his resurrection said. _I won’t be here to watch them die_.

Jason put Roy in a different room to the one that had held Damian, just to make it feel like this was somehow different than that night had been. Sure, Damian hadn’t died, but Jason knew deep down that the Lazarus Pit had determined that; not his own fortitude or some cosmic luck. And Roy didn’t have any powers, not even the Lazarus Pit to give him a boost.

Jason didn’t realise he was crying – might not have been – until he was shouting at Tim. He’d meant to bark out an order the way Bruce would have, but he just wasn’t that fucking strong.

“Go clean that blood off you,” he snarled, ignoring the way Tim’s own eyes were brimming with tears, “and bring me everything you’ve got on Amanda Waller.”


	15. Chapter 12.5: The Adventures of Red Robin and Arsenal Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Mention of drug use, swearing, mentions of addiction

Archie Goodwin International Airport was located barely a ten-minute drive south of Wayne Manor, just across Mooney Bridge on the western mainland.

Before any other international mission, Tim would have stayed the night at the Manor and had Alfred drive him to the private airstrip Wayne Enterprises kept for their small fleet of private jets. When he’d suggested that to Arsenal, however, the redheaded archer had shifted uncomfortably from foot-to-foot and avoided looking Tim in the eye.

So instead they’d stayed the night in The Penthouse; a chic, minimalist suite on the top floor of Wayne Tower, complete with a view of the Atlantic, three bedrooms, two bathrooms and, of course, a private lift to an underground garage and bunker. Arsenal had let out a low whistle when they’d entered via said bunker, making no effort to hide how desperately he wanted to snoop around.

“B’s not here tonight,” Tim had said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls.

He swept across the long, narrow space, past several iterations of batmobiles and batcycles, and into the modest locker room. The space wasn’t anywhere near as sprawling as the Batcave or any of the League’s various hideouts, but Tim didn’t get the sense that Arsenal had spent much time in any of those.

Tim stripped out of his suit quickly and efficiently, undoing latches on armour panels and clasps on Kevlar with nimble, practiced hands. Part of Batman’s rigorous training had been timing how long it took to do a full costume change – from civilian attire to the vigilante get-up – and Tim had always joked about how it made him feel like an actor in a college stage production.

Arsenal undressed himself more lazily, though they finished at about the same time because the archer’s costume was simpler. He didn’t seem to have any hidden catches or booby-traps, no extra layer of non-conductive insulation under his Kevlar, or reinforced titanium panel over his heart. Hell, the redhead’s costume didn’t even have sleeves.

Not that Tim was complaining. There was definitely something charming about the faded stick-n-poke tattoos on his fellow ex-sidekick’s shoulders. The green one that said ‘POISON’ in sloppy, uneven letters, accompanied by a scorpion and an octopus with a skull for a head, drew Tim’s eye. Before he could consider his words, he found himself asking about it.

“What’s it mean?”

Arsenal hummed at him, raising one eyebrow as he threw a loose white t-shirt over his head that had been in the duffel he’d brought with him. Tim nodded at his shoulder as it disappeared under the fabric, and a hint of a smile tugged the corner of Arsenal’s mouth.

“I guess I thought it looked cool at the time,” he said with a shrug.

“You don’t think that anymore?” Tim pressed, hopping up and down a little as he struggled into a pair of too-tight skinny jeans.

They were fine around the waist once they got up there, but all the acrobatics he engaged in as Red Robin meant his thighs were disproportionately wide compared to the rest of his body. He’d lamented with Dick a hundred times about the issue as they changed in the locker rooms of the Batcave; apparently it was just a Robin thing.

Arsenal shrugged again, diverting his eyes. Tim couldn’t pinpoint the source of the behaviour; was it some sense of modesty because he felt uncomfortable watching Tim squeeze into his jeans, or was the topic uncomfortable? Tim was about to test the waters a little further, trying to decide the best tactic, when Arsenal continued.

“I don’t remember getting them,” the archer admitted.

“You don’t?” Tim asked immediately, almost stammering over the words as he imagined plucking them out of the air and shoving them guiltily back into his mouth.

Arsenal flinched, now shoving his feet into a pair of beat-up high-top _Vans_ (red, of course).

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Tim began hurriedly.

“Forget about it, kid,” Roy snapped, suddenly sounding so much like Jason Todd.

He followed that with a great heaving sigh as he slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. The sigh certainly wasn’t because of the bag’s weight.

Tim averted his gaze and braced himself to brush past Arsenal. The narrow space between the lockers meant that they could barely stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the room, and Tim didn’t feel much like asking Arsenal to move out of his way. He knew if he did he’d sound rude, and they were going to be stuck with each other for the next half a week at least. Instead, he steeled himself and shuffled past the taller man, trying to make himself as small as possible.

Tim thought Arsenal might have got the hint, but the redhead just stood there, forcing contact. Their forearms brushed, and Tim immediately felt all the hairs there stand up.

Tim hurriedly exited the room, Arsenal hot on his heels, and made a beeline for the elevator at the end of the bunker. They passed another batmobile – this one an as-yet unused prototype that Tim had been tooling around with whenever he stayed at The Penthouse. _A more and more frequent occurrence,_ Tim thought. Not long after he’d ended things with Stephanie he’d realised just how much he’d come to rely on crashing at her apartment whenever he was in the city. Now instead of having a drawer in her bedroom dresser, he had a cupboard in one of The Penthouse’s guest rooms.

A faint ghost of regret wisped through his stomach, but it was gone as soon as it had come. It had been almost six months now since he and Steph had gone their separate ways, and his only real regret was that he still didn’t feel like he could reach out and repair their friendship yet; she wasn’t ready, and maybe he wasn’t either. Still, they ran into each other every once in a while, and sometimes one of them would make a joke that activated some nostalgia reflex deep in their brains, and they’d laugh together or exchange a knowing smile. Those moments faded just as soon as they came too, but Tim quietly hoped that pleasant familiarity would be the norm for them again one day.

He caught himself smiling at the thought, and reflexively stared down at his feet as though that would conceal his expression from Arsenal. The elevator had ascended halfway up the tower now, and there wasn’t much room to hide in the tiny metal box. He dug his hands into back pockets of his jeans because, truth be told, they didn’t fit in the front pockets.

Arsenal’s eyes followed Tim’s hands and he smirked as he asked, “What’ya thinkin’ about, Tee-bird?”

Tim, now in better spirits, found himself smiling wryly at the pet name. It wasn’t one of the many that Jason had given him over the years, so he figured Arsenal must have come up with it himself. He bit back the urge to make a snarky comment about the redhead’s originality, and instead just shook his head.

“Nothing important,” he muttered, as the elevator slowed to a perfectly smooth stop.

Arsenal didn’t bother to hide the way his jaw dropped open as they entered the open-plan living area of The Penthouse.

Directly opposite them, the far wall was made entirely of floor-to-ceiling glass panels, a few of which gave way to a small balcony and jacuzzi. Between them and the glass, though, was a wide-open living room. An enormous slate-grey rug made everything feel somehow warmer, despite all the furniture being either black leather or brushed steel. The couches all pointed towards the western wall, currently on their right, where an enormous home-cinema-size television took up the entire wall.

In the eastern corner, to their left, a generous kitchen with sleek, mostly untouched appliances and marble countertops hummed and sparkled. That was what Tim padded towards. He hadn’t bothered with shoes when he was downstairs because he was only going to take them off once he got up here anyway, and the kitchen’s polished tile floor was cool on the soles of his feet.

“No chandelier?” Arsenal called incredulously from behind him.

Though Tim knew the archer was joking, Tim had actually asked the same thing when Bruce had remodelled the place a few years ago. _This isn’t the Manor_ , Bruce had said.

“This is where billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne brings his dates,” Tim called back with a laugh, repeating what Bruce had told him that day, “Not where he brings members of Gotham’s high society.”

Arsenal had just nodded, taking a seat at one of the bar stools on the outside of the kitchen’s large marble island. Tim was on the other side of it, hunting around in the fridge. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what to offer Arsenal, since he didn’t seem like a wine or scotch guy – and that was in the liquor cabinet anyway, not the fridge – and he also didn’t seem like a tea guy.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked pleasantly instead, orchestrating a cover story in his head for why the fridge was mostly stocked with apple juice and soda.

He was just deciding he’d say it was for Damian – or maybe Dick – when he heard Arsenal clear his throat.

“I don’t drink,” the archer stated firmly.

There was an edge in his voice, so Tim turned around. Sure enough, Arsenal’s hands were clenched into fists on the bench and his bright green eyes were looking anywhere but at Tim.

It occurred to him that this was the first time he’d ever really looked at Arsenal without his mask on. His eyes were the most terrifyingly bright shade of green Tim had ever seen, and everything from his orange hair to his crisp white shirt seemed to accentuate how pale he was. Under the bright downlights of the kitchen, Tim could see the generous dusting of freckles over his nose that extended out over his cheeks, as well as the tiny little whiskers on his chin that told him the guy probably wasn’t capable of growing more than a five o’clock shadow. Tim was the same, though Arsenal had a few years on him.

Tim wasn’t sure if what he said next was an attempt to lighten the mood or to try and bond with Arsenal, but he said it all the same.

“Good thing I’m the _kid_ ,” he said, emphasising the word Arsenal had called him earlier, “who has a fridge full of juice boxes and _Red Bull_ then.”

He punctuated his attempt at humour by swinging the refrigerator door open dramatically to showcase the aforementioned contents.

Arsenal huffed out a laugh in response and asked Tim to chuck him a soda. Tim obliged, grabbing one for himself as well and setting them both down on the counter. He cracked his own with one hand and opened the drawer beside his hip with the other, retrieving a handful of takeout menus. He splayed them out across the counter in front of the archer.

“You’re the guest, Arsenal,” he said.

Arsenal rolled his eyes.

“It’s Roy,” he said.

 

Now Tim was sat in the backseat of a town car with _Roy_ , their thighs almost brushing. He remembered bickering with Alfred that morning about their mode of transportation. _Nonsense, Master Timothy_ , Alfred had admonished, _I’ll come and pick you up myself_. Tim had given a pointed, patented look to no one in particular. He was pretty sure Roy, who was standing by the balcony windows sipping a coffee, had caught it anyway. _Fine_ , he’d sighed, admitting defeat, _just don’t bring the limo, okay?_

They were only two minutes out from the airport now, and Alfred told them as much. The butler made some brief small-talk, ensuring that they had all the things they required, that they knew how to get in touch if something went sideways while they were undercover (which Alfred described as ‘hitting a snafu’), and of course that Bruce knew what they were doing.

“Batman has been adequately briefed,” Tim had answered mechanically.

Then there’d been silence, until finally they’d pulled up to the aircraft hangar. Tim could already see the nose of the sleek, black jet poking out from the hangar doors, and Tim idly wondered just how many peanuts he could eat on a single flight between New Jersey and Brazil.

Alfred got out of the car and immediately went to one of the back passenger-side doors to open it for them. It was standard practice for any butler or chauffeur and, though it had taken some getting used to, Tim had come to respect that it was just Alfred’s way. But Tim had also come to understand that Alfred was nothing if not tactful, and he understood that people who didn’t come from money – like many of the family’s friends, for example – felt uncomfortable with such a gesture. Which was why Tim’s senses pricked up when Alfred chose to open Roy’s door instead of his _Master Timothy’s_.

“Have you heard from Master Jason recently?” Alfred inquired innocently, his arm moving in a broad arc to show Roy that he should exit the car.

Tim’s heart practically leapt into his mouth at the butler’s words. _No one else knows_ , he thought dimly as he was overcome with the weight of what he knew had been Roy and Jason’s last encounter.

Roy had been captured and forced in front of a camera like the hostage of a terrorist. Bruised and bloody, he’d sat there on a live-feed awaiting judgement from thousands of Earth’s citizens, all of whom had the opportunity to vote on whether he lived or died. The votes had been staggeringly in favour of his death, when suddenly there had been a brief scuffle with the Joker’s Daughter, followed by Jason’s arrival.

Jason had burst in from somewhere off-camera that Tim hadn’t been able to see on the footage he’d retrieved, and he’d taken down the bad guys in typical, lethal Red Hood fashion. Then he’d turned to Roy and said a series of words so unkind they were practically etched into Tim’s memory. He could only imagine what those words sounded like in Roy’s head right now, bouncing around as Alfred cornered him and forced them to the surface.

“We speak every once in a while,” Roy was telling Alfred coolly, even as Tim heard the words, _I’m sorry, I’m never going to be the hero you want me to be_ , echoing in his head.

“He lets me know he’s okay and he knows to call if he’s in trouble,” Roy finished, clapping a hand on Alfred’s shoulder.

_I have every confidence in you – that you’ll stay the hero I know you are_.

Tim hadn’t needed to hear the exchange a second time before he’d deleted the footage and scrubbed the entire world’s hard-drives clean of any trace of it. He only wished now that he could scrub it clean from Roy’s brain as well.

Tim swiftly retrieved both of their suitcases from the trunk of the car, while Alfred politely thanked Roy, and handed the archer’s to him while he rounded the car. He waved a goodbye at Alfred that was probably unfairly dismissive, but he could feel the discomfort coming off Roy in waves and he just wanted to dispel the tension of the moment as soon as possible.

As the town car and Alfred pulled away, Roy leaned towards Tim and spoke in his ear, voice low and dark, “So you saw what happened between me and Jason, huh.”

“I-” Tim began, gripping his suitcase more firmly in his hand as he dragged it behind him.

Frankly, he had no idea what to say, and he felt guilt rising up from the pit of his stomach and coiling in his chest as he fully considered how intrusive he had been. _It’s my job_ , he’d told himself at the time, because any time a superhero was on camera – especially when it was a member of the family – he had to control it and cover their tracks.

“I deleted every instance of it I could find,” Tim finally said, as if that would make it better.

Somehow, it seemed to work, at least a little. Roy appeared to let go of a breath he’d been holding in, and he rolled his shoulders back like he was working tension out of them as they neared the jet.

The pilot knew better than to make friendly conversation – he worked for Bruce Wayne after all – so instead he just gestured for them to follow him onboard. They hadn’t requested a cabin attendant for the flight, so it would just be Tim and Roy alone for the duration. After their pleasant evening last night eating Indian food and watching movies, Tim had expected it to be a comfortable experience. But after their heated moment on the tarmac, Tim was beginning to regret this entire thing.

Still, he took a seat in one of the booths in the back of the jet. This was probably their most dated model as far as the interior went, but it reminded Tim of old movies about Wall Street stockbrokers who smoked cigars and still followed the age-old code of wearing tan suits in the summertime (something Tim and Bruce still somewhat embarrassingly partook in). Everything was trimmed with rich mahogany and the seats were a muted cream leather.

Though there had been a seat open across the aisle from Tim, Roy walked right past it and instead sat in one right at the back of the plane. Almost in sync, both of them immediately extended their footrests and reached for the bottles of water that had been left in the cupholders of each seat.

Tim cracked the lid of his and took a small sip before reaching over the armrest to wrestle his laptop free from his bag. A seven-hour flight was time Tim couldn’t afford to waste, so he set about working immediately, only pausing briefly to turn his head and inform Roy matter-of-factly that the plane was equipped with wi-fi, and there was a card with the password tucked into the pocket of the seat in front of him.

Two hours crept by as Tim refamiliarized himself with the details of the case. He’d rote-learned it all by now, of course, but it never hurt to be sure.

Their target was a man named Samuel Talbot, a former low-level errand boy for the Falcone crime family, who’d gotten out of the family business early enough to avoid jail time and had ended up in the smuggling business instead. He’d started with simple imports; guns, drugs and other controlled substances – the types of things that were so easy to smuggle into Gotham it was laughable. But over the years Talbot had steadily become a procurer of rarer and rarer goods, until he finally found his niche trading exotic animals for ludicrous amounts of untraceable cash. As a result, he had ties to some of Gotham’s most powerful A-listers – if the rumours were to be believed, he was the guy supplying The Penguin with his penguins.

For almost a decade now, Talbot had been untouchable; always keeping his shipments and transactions at arms’ length, and never leaving a paper trail. Finally, though, one of his suppliers had sent a note with their latest shipment, demanding that their arrangement be renegotiated in person. Tim and Roy had found the note while they were searching Talbot’s warehouse on The Docks for evidence, and now they were headed to Brazil hot on Talbot’s heels to observe the meeting. Talbot hadn’t even bothered to book his hotel with a fake name. In fact, he had booked a full two weeks at a five-star resort.

The part of the case Tim hadn’t yet briefed Roy on – and might not brief him on – was Talbot’s connection to Gotham City’s Mayor. It was no secret (or surprise) that the Mayor was dirty, but if this panned out right, Talbot’s inside info might be the lead Batman needed to continue dismantling Gotham’s corrupt political world.

A sense of premature pride crept up the back of Tim’s neck as he imagined handing Talbot over to Bruce. It wasn’t often that Tim got to make meaningful contributions to his mentor’s cases, and it was always a rush when it happened.

In recent years especially, Bruce had taken to categorising Gotham’s criminals into three groups: A-listers, B-listers, and Others. The A-listers were the people only Batman would investigate; Gotham City police officials, politicians, and most of Gotham’s old guard of crime lords. Among the latter were The Penguin, Bane, some others, and, of course, The Joker. The B-listers were those like Poison Ivy; well-established members of Gotham’s criminal underbelly who commanded respect and power but were less likely to burn the whole city the ground. The Others were everyone else. Tim kept telling himself Samuel Talbot was an Other, though he knew Batman would see through that in a heartbeat.

Still, Bruce’s ranking system was patronising at best, and actively dangerous at worst. Most members of Gotham’s tight-knit group of vigilantes – who Tim affectionately called the Bat family – weren’t aware of exactly what determined a criminal’s A-list status, but Tim had figured it out long ago. Batwoman had once told Spoiler that the A-list was just a list of all the criminals who had been active during Batman’s inception; people that Batman had a personal grudge against.

Tim wasn’t naïve enough to believe that though. Batman was too calculated to hold grudges. So, Tim had devised an algorithm that would quantify a criminal’s lethality. Some of the factors accounted for included body count, property destruction, the geographical scope of their crimes, the monetary backing they had access to, as well as the psychological evaluations they’d been given at Arkham Asylum, Blackgate Penitentiary or Belle Reve. As Tim had suspected, all the most dangerous criminals – the ones who were the most likely to kill a vigilante based on their previous patterns of behaviour – were members of the A-list.

Tim snapped his laptop shut in his lap, tapping his fingers rapidly on its plastic lid to dispel some nervous energy. It didn’t work, however, so instead he stood and paced the length of the plane. He began by working his way towards the front. His shoes lay discarded in front of his chair, much like his jacket, and he padded back and forth in sunny yellow socks and a matching t-shirt.

Lost in thought, he found himself at the back of the plane, where he stood over Roy. The archer was reclined as far back into his chair as he could go, legs outstretched on the table in front of him. He wasn’t nearly as tall as some of the other men Tim had shared this plane with, but he knew most ex-sidekicks were bursting with the kind of energy that could only be expelled by kicking ass at least five nights a week. Tim was in the minority in that regard; he’d always been able to spend upwards of eighteen hours at a time on monitor duty or in transit. From the way Roy was fidgeting, it wasn’t a quality the two of them shared.

Tim stared down at Roy’s exposed arms, really looking at them in the light for the first time. From this angle, Tim could see myriad of scars, more than he or any of the rest of the Bat family had. Tim imagined it was partly due to the way he left his arms bare in combat, but Tim also sensed something else. Perhaps it was because Roy’s choice of ranged weaponry left him particularly vulnerable to close-quarters combat, or maybe it was the old track marks around Roy’s elbows that convinced Tim some of the scars on the archer’s arms were from before he’d been trained at all.

“I need to tell you something,” Tim blurted the second he felt Roy’s piercing green eyes on him.

Roy’s youthful face settled into a series of harsh and angular lines in a heartbeat. Tim couldn’t help but infer that this was an expression the muscles in his face were used to making; ginger eyebrows knotted, lips pressed together until there was nothing left of the pink, pillowy things Tim had spent far too much time staring at last night – even his narrowing eyes seemed to take on a more acute shape.

“This mission about to go sideways, bird-boy?” Roy asked gruffly.

Tim didn’t know how to answer; he was speechless under the intensity of Roy’s gaze. He felt like every second he spent looking at the archer was another part of the redhead that he wasn’t supposed to know. First it had been a polite offer of a beverage, now it was just standing near him that was an invasion of privacy. Even when Tim had just been trying to do his job – monitoring the internet the night Roy and Jason had split up, collecting evidence at the warehouse and The Docks – it seemed like no matter what he did, he was just in Arsenal’s way.

Unable to think any of it through clearly, and feeling clouded by emotions – _why was he so afraid of getting on Arsenal’s nerves? It had never stopped him before_ – he simply told the truth instead. Surely that couldn’t steer him wrong, right?

“Talbot is connected to Gotham’s mayor,” he explained quickly, eyes darting away from Roy’s face as though he feared the distrust and disappointment he’d no doubt find there.

Tim exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in and rocked backwards on his heels. His hands dug into the back pockets of his pale blue jeans, and he felt suddenly exposed to the other man. He found himself wondering if he’d be able to get his hands in front of him fast enough to block the first blow, should it come.

“I haven’t exactly let B know,” he finished hurriedly, feeling guilt invade every pore in his body as the words hung in the air.

“And Batman would want to know?” Roy asked.

His voice gave nothing away, and Tim was still too ashamed to look at his face. He pictured the old, faded track marks on Roy’s elbows again and found himself crossing his arms and holding his own elbows, as though that might somehow soothe the burn the archer surely still felt there.

“ _Batman,_ ” Tim drawled, sounding bolder and far more jovial than he felt, “is going to treat me to a forty-five-minute lecture on respecting the chain-of-command and the importance of intel transparency among allies.”

Tim dared to look up from his feet then, and when he met Roy’s gaze he felt the breath ripped from his lungs. It was those stupid, dazzlingly bright eyes. They looked like Kryptonite, and they short-circuited Tim’s brain. Completely at a loss for _why in the world_ Roy could possibly be grinning, he simply waited for Arsenal to speak, breath tangled up somewhere between his chest and his throat.

“ _Baby bird_ ,” Roy drawled appreciatively, his voice so well-lathered in affection that it was practically dripping with it, “you are _full_ of surprises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me [on tumblr](http://www.holy-fate-worse-than-death.tumblr.com) for updates and terrible attempts at DC-related humour


	16. Chapter 13: Dick Grayson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Swearing, mentions of death, mentions of sex, mentions of canon-typical violence

He was waiting until Bruce got back, Jason told himself. But his fingers, tapping impatiently against the steering wheel in front of him, told a different story. Maybe it was this damn car, a silver _Porsche_ 911 that was older than Jason was. It was small, sleek and low to the ground; not the sort of car Jason would usually drive, but he’d picked it from the garage that morning because he remembered that it was the one Dick had taken his first joyride in. It had seemed appropriate, given that he was driving to Blüdhaven and back. The plan that was slowly coming to life in his head, unfurling like blueprints across the Batcave’s conference table, was fuelled by the type of sheer ego that only Bruce Wayne could pull off. Bruce Wayne and all his shiny cars, and even shinier gadgets.

Jason sighed, reaching out and flicking off the radio with a short, frustrated noise. As if the lasts few days hadn’t been enough to wind him up, every radio DJ in Gotham had seemingly forgotten what _taste_ was while he was gone.

He fished his phone out from the centre console and jammed it into the mount on the dash. It connected to the car’s radio automatically. Jason was planning to play some of his own music, but when his fingers touched the phone he found himself calling Dick’s number instead.

_I_ was _going to surprise him,_ he thought as he set the call to speaker.

It took a few rings for Dick to pick up, and Jason found his heart skipping with each one. A knot formed under his diaphragm and it seemed to siphon off some of his air, leaving him not-quite breathless.

“Jay?” Dick asked mildly, a hint of surprise in his voice.

See the thing is, Jason never calls first. He isn’t – has never been – the one to initiate these things. It was always a one-word text from Dick to Jason’s cell; just the word ‘now’ or an address. Jason never replied to them, but he always showed up. But then that night had happened- and god, Jason couldn’t think about it without wanting to scream or cry or _something_. How had he gone from ramming Dick’s ass once or twice a month to _I hate you for making me fall in love with you_ , all in one night?

“You driving?” Dick asked after a while, when Jason didn’t say anything.

In retrospect, he probably could have at least said ‘hello’. But there was blood rushing in his ears and someone had just cut him off on the highway. He hummed in affirmation, wondering if Dick could even hear him through the speaker.

Dick’s voice dropped lower then, more serious. Jason pictured him sitting down, tensing his shoulders and worrying at the hem of his sleeve like he always did when he was nervous.

“How’s Damian?” he breathed.

Jason smiled then, despite Dick’s sombre tone. Perhaps he should have been worried, but truth be told the kid was bouncing back like a champ. He’d even had the Kent kid over yesterday. They’d squabbled over ice-cream flavours like real kids, and Jason’s chest had been full to bursting. The Kent kid – Jon – had helped Damian feed all his animals, even his cow and the two-dozen battery hens that now roamed Wayne Manor’s hedge maze (and Jesus, Jason would have to ask Dick later how the fuck _that_ had come to be). It had been weird, seeing these two miniature versions of Bruce and Clark chase each other around the Manor, but it had also felt so spine-tinglingly right.

“He looks like his mom when he smiles,” Jason murmured, not realising he’d spoken out loud until the words were already hanging like a warm cloud in the air.

“How well did you know her?” Dick enquired.

Dick was always so inquisitive, so full of questions. For a long time, it had annoyed Jason, pissed him off to the point where he’d yelled at his older counterpart about it a time or two. But these days he’d just resigned himself to it; understood that it was the natural companion for Jason’s (no doubt equally as infuriating) brevity.

As if to hammer that point home, Jason replied with a single word: “Well.”

Dick _hmmed_ at him then, just as Jason turned onto the Blüdhaven off-ramp. _Now or never_ , he thought to himself.

“You at home?” he asked gruffly.

“Yeah,” Dick replied easily, a smile creeping into his voice, “Night off.”

“I’m coming over,” Jason told him, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

Dick’s breath hitched on the other end of the line and Jason chewed on his lip, wondering if he’d pushed his luck too far.

“Okay,” Dick eventually breathed, letting out a long, shaky breath that Jason wasn’t sure he was meant to hear.

Jason smirked to himself, relieved that he could still take the guy’s breath away when he wanted to. Emboldened, he asked, “So… what are you wearing?”

He’d figured the question – which was the sort of thing only straight men in their forties ever asked their dates – would have earned him a laugh from his jovial older counterpart. Instead, silence tore a schism between them, and Jason was left feeling like all the air had been sucked from inside the car.

When Dick finally spoke, he wasn’t even angry, he just sounded sad: “Jay, please don’t make fun of this.”

Jason’s stomach sank so far that he could feel it in his knees. In his mind’s eye he was seeing Clark, in that abandoned hospital on the outskirts of Smallville, flinching at Jason’s joke and trying desperately to hide it. That moment had already broken Jason’s heart, and somehow this one was so much worse.

He wanted to grab Dick’s sweet, scared face in his hands and kiss him until he forgot every stupid thing Jason had ever said; until he could feel Jason’s feelings pulsating between them. He wanted to breathe new life into this tired, terrified boy who’d been the only one brave enough to call this what it was. The one who’d been brave enough to call Jason’s name since the very first night they were together. The one who’d kept letting him in, piece by piece, knowing that the Red Hood would almost certainly break him; run him through and pierce his heart like he’d done to so many men before him. Admittedly, those men had been criminals, not lovers, but sometimes Jason felt like his whole being existed to cater to criminals.

“I’ll be over in fifteen,” Jay croaked, fumbling to hang up the phone before Dick could protest.

He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror; eyes downturned and sad under a grey-white fringe that had been neatly combed to one side. His eyeliner was smoky, and a little too thick, because he’d applied it in the car to avoid having _that_ conversation with Damian. Not that he was ashamed, it just seemed like something that his brother didn’t need to be thinking about right now, especially with the way the Kent kid made him blush. _Jeez,_ he thought, _they really are their father’s sons_.

Jason had pulled a crisp white tee from Bruce’s closet (all of Jason’s were stained or torn) and paired it with his tightest black jeans, throwing his usual jacket and boots on with it. Somehow the shirt was enough to clean up his whole look, and he was glad; he wanted Dick to know he’d put in a little effort.

_For fucking once_ , Jason thought bitterly, glaring at his own reflection.

 

Dick’s loft in Blüdhaven was an intimidatingly light and airy place, with none of the Gotham gothic style Jason was used to. Even in the various short-term rentals Jason had lived in over the years (including a few here in Blüdhaven), Jason had maintained the greyscale colour palette of Wayne Manor and The Penthouse. Here, everything was shades of warm brown; wood-panelled walls and unpolished floorboards, with a modest chipboard kitchen and huge windows with lace curtains that danced in the afternoon breeze.

Dick’s clothing was draped over everything; a salmon-pink button-down over the back of the couch alongside a half-inside-out pair of pale blue jeans, a denim jacket hung over the back of one of the breakfast bar’s stools, a pair of discarded boxers on the living room floor. Everything smelled so much like him, and Jason spied some black-and-red Kevlar mesh poking out from between the couch cushions. Jason snorted at the discarded uniform and sauntered towards the bedroom where he’d heard footsteps. _Better than a glass case_ , he thought.

_Come in! It’s open!_ Dick had called at him when he’d knocked, so Jason did.

Jason swung the bedroom door open and dropped his shoulder against the doorframe. It was darker in here, and Jason spied the rubber-backed curtains on the window that blocked out the sunlight. He smirked at them, the contrast between these curtains and the ones in the living room serving as a reminder that Dick was still the antisocial little cave-dweller they all were.

His eyes fell to Dick then, soft hair curtaining his face as he desperately tried to yank on a pair of jeans that were entirely too tight. Jason was familiar with his plight and had to stifle a laugh as Dick desperately tried to force the offending denim over his ass. His back was turned, and Jason could see the way all the muscles in his shoulders tensed as he hopped up and down, fingers hooked through his belt loops.

“Take it easy, D,” Jason chortled.

He pushed off the doorframe as Dick spun around to face him, a half-hearted glare sent in Jason’s direction. Jason figured he probably deserved it, but he ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Instead, he barrelled into Dick, gripping the back of the acrobat’s waistband and yanking his jeans up over his ass easily, inadvertently lifting Dick into the air in the process. Without thinking it through (and gee, there was a surprise) Jason snaked his hands around to the front of Dick’s jeans to do up his fly for him. There was a joke in there somewhere about the irony of Jason helping him put on his jeans instead of taking them off, but Jason left it unsaid.

Dick’s hands had fallen limp to his sides as Jason manhandled him, and now he rolled his eyes.

“Thanks mom,” he said, shoving Jason away playfully so he could bend over and retrieve his socks from the floor.

Dick sat down on the edge of his unmade bed to put them on, and Jason stood over him, grinning like a maniac. He looked good like that, still shirtless and leaning backwards onto the bed, one leg in the air as he tugged a bat-symbol-branded sock over his foot.

“You still wear the matchin’ panties too?” Jason asked, inching just a little closer to Dick as he began to tug on the other sock.

Dick blushed then, and Jason’s smirk got even wider. He’d just seen Dick putting on his pants, so he knew the answer was yes. But it reminded Jason of so many other times – and the first time, where he’d cracked some lame joke about daddy issues and then torn them off with his teeth.

But this wasn’t about sex, and it wasn’t just about Jason distracting himself from the ludicrous plan he was setting in motion in Bruce’s absence, either. This was meant to be about something else, so Jason sank into Dick’s lap, startling his older counterpart, and pressed his lips gently against Dick’s.

Jason had never kissed like this before. Usually when he kissed somebody it was a jaws-clashing, teeth-gnashing, go-until-you’ve-got-spit-on-your-chin affair. And Jason loved that, of course, but this was something else.

Dick’s lips were soft and pliant under his, tentative and quivering just a little. Unlike last time, neither of them was crying now, and Jason had all the time in the world to work Dick’s mouth open and explore it tenderly with his tongue. He wrapped his arms around Dick’s neck like a girl might and pulled back playfully so that Dick had to chase his mouth to continue the kiss – which Dick did eagerly. Their lips made that sound that happened when people kissed in movies and Dick weaved a hand between them and up to Jason’s face, cupping his jaw and rubbing circles on Jason’s cheek with his thumb.

The kiss never deepened, but when they pulled back to rest their foreheads together they were breathing as though it had. Even so, there was a stillness in the room, a comfortable silence that embraced them as they embraced each other.

Jason opened his eyes first, Dick’s relaxed, gently-smiling face coming into focus. Dick’s dark eyelashes dusted his cheekbones, and his lips were red and shiny now, pulled up into the ghost of a smile and still parted slightly. Jason settled properly onto the bed, knees still bracketing Dick’s thighs, and wondered if he could stay like this forever.

The soft afternoon light filtered in through the bedroom door over Jason’s shoulder, casting the perfect shadows over Dick’s face. His jaw was strong and square, his cheekbones high and angular, but set into an exquisitely masculine shape. His nose was wide at the nostrils, the bridge of it sunken back into his face and crooked from at least a half-dozen broken noses. The first hint of a beard peppered his chin and Jason had to resist the urge to nuzzle his own face against it.

Eventually, Dick’s eyes opened and he sighed contentedly, wriggling with lazy pleasure as he wrapped his arms more firmly around Jason’s waist. Jason thought that it was nice to be held like this (though he’d never say it out loud). He was still tense with the knowledge of what was coming next, but for once he felt safe in someone’s embrace.

It reminded him, perhaps perversely, of the first time Bruce had ever held him; sheltering Jason from the storm he’d been weathering on his own for so many years. And it reminded him of how he’d held Damian and Tim over the past few days, though he’d been in Dick’s role during those moments. _Is it supposed to feel like this all the time?_ he wondered.

Dick was staring up into his eyes now, their haziness disappearing as he scrutinised his younger counterpart. Jason knew what he was looking at, and he wondered if Dick – or anyone in the family – had ever seen him with makeup on before. Jason squirmed, somewhat despite himself, but Dick’s lazy little smile never faltered.

“So,” Dick began carefully, “What’s the plan.”

Jason chewed on his lip as he contemplated how best to answer that. Jason hadn’t come here with an explicit plan, but somewhere between the Gotham on-ramp and the Blüdhaven off-ramp, Jason had come to know exactly where he’d take Dick. It had seemed silly at that point, to drive all the way out here to pick up Dick, only to drive right back to Gotham, but somehow it had seemed right. _Old fashioned_ , he thought to himself. But it had seemed like the type of thing that Clark Kent would do, and so Jason had done it.

“There’s this old Italian place down by Amusement Mile,” Jason started, climbing out of Dick’s lap to sit next to him on the bed.

He swivelled his head to face Dick, giving his older counterpart a look that hopefully conveyed his seriousness. Instinctively, Jason reached out and took Dick’s hand in his, giving it a little squeeze. Dick didn’t respond, but he didn’t jerk his hand away either – though he was looking at Jason with a calculated sort of confusion; brows knitting together as his eyes flew across Jason’s features, trying to read him.

“They have the best ossobuco in the city,” Jason continued, swallowing down the ache that came from how much he sounded like his Sicilian mother whenever he said anything more Italian than ‘pizza’.

Jason had never been to this Italian place himself, but a long time ago Dick had told him about it. More specifically, he’d told Jason that it was the last place he’d eaten with his parents before their deaths.

Dick had stopped breathing now, and Jason pre-emptively flinched, ready for Dick to wrench his hand away and throw Jason out of the apartment. Which was why Jason nearly choked when Dick squeezed his hand instead.

“Have you ever been back?” Jason asked softly, knowing that Dick had caught on to his plan now.

“No,” Dick whispered, turning his face away from Jason’s to scrunch his toes in the carpet.

Dick took several long, steadying breaths before he spoke again. Jason waited patiently, never loosening his grip on Dick’s hand. He’d wait for Dick Grayson for as long as it took. Had _been_ waiting, he realised, maybe since before his death.

“Is this a date?” Dick asked after a while, eyes flickering over to Jason briefly before returning to the carpet.

“Yes,” Jason answered firmly, utterly determined not to give Dick any cowardly cop-outs this time – not this time, and never again if he could help it.

Dick’s breathing had gone shallow again, but Jason felt suddenly emboldened to press on. Maybe it was the candour with which Clark had apologised to him back in Smallville that inspired him. After all, when Clark had done it, it had earned more of Jason’s respect than anything else could have. He figured he owed Dick at least that.

“But it’s also an apology,” he said, perhaps not as confidently as Clark would have, though he imagined Clark had had far more practice at this during his time as Superman (and during his time dating Bruce Wayne).

Dick turned to him, like he was about to ask, ‘for what?’ but Jason was already answering him.

“For… everything.”

Dick’s tears this time are gentle and quiet. They roll down his face like rain on a windowpane, and it takes a beat before Jason even spots them. When he does, his eyes begin to prick as well, and he reaches out automatically to cup Dick’s face in his hand and turn the older man towards him. Dick’s eyes are wet and glistening, but the hopelessness that Jason had seen in them that night outside Damian’s room is (mercifully) no longer there.

Licking a tear off his lips, Jason smiled weakly and asked, “How do you _do_ this?”

He was half-asking how Dick could stand to cry so often when Jason usually cried about three times a year on average, and half-asking something else, which he voiced as best as he could:

“It’s like every time you cry, I have to cry too.”

Dick laughed at him then; a wet, sunny little laugh that ended in a sniffle.

“That’s called love,” he said easily, his tone as breezy and incredulous as if he was explaining to an alien what a toaster was.

“Well,” Jason said, wiping his tears away and laying back on the bed with a sigh.

He pillowed one of his arms behind his head, using his free hand (which was still in Dick’s) to tug his older counterpart down with him. Dick complied, rolling onto his side and resting his head on his elbow. From his vantage, he stared down at Jason while Jason stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Jason said after a while, finishing the thought he’d left hanging in the air.

Dick’s tears were gone now, and he’d perked up considerably. The amicability between them was unlike anything either of them had had together since before Jason had died, and if Jason had been asked to describe it, he might have called it freeing.

Dick certainly seemed free, as he asked, “You’ve never been in love before?” as unabashedly as a middle schooler might.

Jason chewed on Dick’s words for a while. The question ought to have made him anxious, but he felt nothing but an honest fascination that mirrored Dick’s. _Never really thought about it before_ , he said to himself, deciding that wouldn’t be a good enough answer to satisfy Dick’s insatiable curiosity.

“Once,” Jason finally settled on, letting the story flow out of him before he was even sure where it was going. “He was hot,” he stated matter-of-factly.

He turned his head to give Dick a gratuitous look that said, ‘he was _very_ hot’.

“And smart,” Jason added, “and sweet, and caring.” Jason scrubbed a hand over his face idly. “He was everything I wanted to be back then.”

Jason let out a puff of air from deep in his tightening chest, turning his head back to the ceiling so that he didn’t have to deal with all the emotions muddying Dick’s perfect face.

“This guy inspired me,” Jason continued, quieter now. “He made me want to be a better person.”

Jason smiled, memories that he hadn’t allowed in since his resurrection flooding his mind. But for once they weren’t flashbacks, they were like a warm breeze blown across his face, and he was heady with the sensation of it.

“This was before I died,” Jason clarified, for once not feeling torn apart by the mention of his own death. “How I felt about him changed everything. It made me who I am.”

Jason’s head lolled to the side, still resting on his arm, and he smiled easily at Dick; a smile that reached his eyes, because Jason felt like he was really _looking_ at him for the first time ever.

“I wanted to be good enough for him,” Jason said. “And in the end, you know, I think I almost was.”

Jason sighed wistfully, and Dick shifted on the bed beside him with what might have been discomfort. He was faintly aware that Dick should be uncomfortable, surprised by Jason’s sudden candour, maybe even a little jealous. But he felt good, for once. His chest was light, and he felt like he could take the weight of the world. Or, at least, the weight of Dick and his brothers.

“Did I mention hot?” Jason asked with a laugh.

There was silence after that for a while, as Dick processed, and Jason continued to revel in old memories.

Memories of soaring through the air, and refitting the Robin suit, and eating _McDonalds_ on the corner of Cornerstone Court and Third Avenue at the end of a patrol. Memories of stupid puns and witty one-liners; of aborted jokes, and stories that always got cut off by the blaring of an ambulance siren or the chatter of a police scanner. Memories of pillow forts in Wayne Manor, and ice-cream sundaes made hastily behind Alfred’s back. Memories of raucous laughter and boyhood. Memories of his childhood best friend.

Memories of Dick Grayson.

 

“You should tell him,” Dick said firmly after a while.

At some point his hand had slipped out of Jason’s, and now Jason felt the ache of its absence.

“Whatever is between us,” Dick continued slowly, holding Jason’s gaze, “You should tell him that he was loved.”

Jason’s smile unfurled alongside the great python in his chest that had been constricting his heart since that night all those months ago, when he’d caught Dick’s eye across the floor of The Black Cat. His grin was untameable, taking over his whole face until his eyes crinkled and his cheeks were sore.

He rolled up onto his side, pushing Dick down onto the bed so that they were a mirroring their previous positions. He tried to wrangle his smile and hold Dick’s gaze with some amount of seriousness, but he failed outstandingly.

“I think I just did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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